


Nec Plus Ultra

by tugarinova



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2020-01-04 18:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 81,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18348836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tugarinova/pseuds/tugarinova
Summary: Of Time-Turners, Portkeys, and whether the postwar syndrome can be cured by the 'drive out fire with fire' method.Translated from Russian to English.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Nec plus ultra](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/469397) by шахматная лошадка/shakhmatnaia loshadka. 



> *Nec plus ultra (lat.) - That's the limit, End of the line.
> 
> Non beta'd.
> 
> Illustration to the fic by @Mysh: https://radikal.ru/lfp/s39.radikal.ru/i084/0912/a7/450988e0f1f2.jpg/htm  
> Illustration to the fic by @MeryChess: http://img14.deviantart.net/fd56/i/2016/038/1/f/nec_plus_ultra_by_merychess-d9qvonu.jp

Hermione barely covers the distance from the fireplace to the door of her chamber and comes crashing face down on the unmade mattress.  


"I hate Mildfever,” she grumbles, burrowing her forehead in the crease of her arm in the attempt to find an ideal position for her worn-out body.  


"What?” asks Ron, shoving his head in the doorway.  


“I hate Mildfever,” the girl repeats and stretches herself with a cracking sound. Days like this she exceptionally rejoices in the habit to sleep on the floor picked up in the last year. It all started with the beginning of training, when Harry, Ron and she rented a tiny apartment, the only room of which could not physically fit three beds. Only a month later Harry got into nothing short of a tantrum regarding the fact that he, Merlin take it, can pay for a normal accommodation with a normal fireplace, a kitchen with no cockroaches, and separate rooms for each of them, and he doesn’t care anymore about Weasley’s idiotic complexes and Granger’s damned commitment to principles. After this landmark event the new apartment was found in three days term, but the beds were never purchased. Hermione, however, suspected that Harry transfigurated his mattress into something more comfortable for Ginny who visited them during Christmas holidays, but for the rest of the time the trio continued to adhere to frugalism.  


”Come on! He wasn’t any more terrible than usual today,” Ron waves his hand good-naturedly and squats by her side, laying his wide palm on her neck. “It’s just that you missed two trainings in a row because of your illness, so your muscles grew unaccustomed to exercises.”  


“Mmm,” Hermione closes her eyes blissfully, when he starts to massage her shoulders. “Don’t even mention it.”  


The thing that Ron so tactfully called ‘illness’ was, in fact, a catastrophic consequence of irresponsible experiment of mixing the drinks on Arthur Weasley’s birthday party at the Burrow. While the older generation spent their time talking casually, and Harry and Ginny went somewhere private on the second floor, Ron, Charlie and George dragged her to a local pub where all four of them got embarrassingly loaded. But, for some reason, of all the participants of the debauch only Hermione danced on the bar counter, tried to kiss Percy when they came back, and rested in bed in semi-comatose state for three days afterwards, not even being able to Apparate home.  


“Now you shall understand how I felt during Potions,” Ron adds malevolently, moving to the small of her back.  


”I see nothing in common,” Hermione answers drowsily.  


“Why, nothing in common. When you go all out,” his hands make her quietly moan again, “and the person who is supposed to teach you gets sadistic pleasure in mocking your imperfect…”  


“Ronald Weasley!” she tries to turn over, but the firm hands push her in the mattress, so the indignant retort sounds half not as intimidatory as usual. “When did you go **all out** on Potions, first of all? And second, your favorite instructor is plain out obsessed with numb-head masculine chauvinism and biased to me and Hannah just because we are girls.”  


”And it still doesn’t ring you a bell? For example, how Neville could lose fifty points in one class just because he was a Gryffindor?”  


“Nev kept losing points because he blew up cauldrons!” Hermione finally squirms out of his grip and, judging by the wicked squint of her eyes, is intensely contemplating where to sock her best friend first off. Her weariness is decisively forgotten. “You can’t seriously think that I… I am all fine with physical training! I passed the run tests in the top five, by the way. But I can’t understand why do I have to have arms like Conan the Barbarian,” she glances with disgust at her biceps.  


“Like who?” asks Ron, rising in one cat-like motion and shifting closer to the door just in case.  


“Never mind. And I’ve lost weight!”  


“That’s because only two days ago you were puking nonstop, remember?” Ron tries to console her, making one step away from his annoyed friend. She just dolefully rolls her eyes. “In fact, you should be glad.”  


“Glad?! Glad that I have to transfigure my own jeans in the morning? Or that my favorite coat which I only bought in November now hangs on me like on a racker? Glad that my breasts disappeared?”  


“Your waistline emerged instead,” Ron reacts thoughtlessly, so the heavy boot flies to his head on the word. “Definitely massage and friendly support work wonders,” he thinks, showing his excellent Keeper’s training.  


“You girls are beyond my depth. Which takes us back to the immortal wisdom of the old chap Mildfever…”  


“What the hippogriff do chicks do in Aurors’ Academy? Get married and go give birth!” they quote in unison the favorite observation of their instructor on physical training which is spoken during almost every session.  


“That is exactly what I mean: close-minded masculine chauvinism in action. I am, by the way, trained to be an analyst. I will sit in a warm office and develop operations, while it is going to be you and Harry who will run, jump, and pull yourselves up,” she sticks her tongue at Ron, while dodging her own boot.  


“You’re wrong, my friend. You do know that Harry is counting on a position at Hogwarts after the Academy, and I want to make it into professional quidditch. While you, with your second degree in medicine, will be carrying the wounded out of the battleground, flexing your biceps, triceps and calf muscles. Much to Mildfever’s delight.”  


The boot takes another flight, followed by the worn-out copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ which Ron does not catch out of revengeful sentiment. Within the last six months Hermione accumulated a huge experience in patching up this exact book.  


“And I have already told you that it is not fair! The Ministry pays for your training in the Academy, and you are intending to buzz off the service at the Auror Office.”  


“We are war heroes, Hermione,” Ron frowns pompously and strikes an inspirational pose. “Veterans. We have payed the magical world all our dues when we defeated Voldemort and have been hunting the rests of his gang across Europe for two more months. We now have the right to simple human happiness…”  


“… in the form of the Keeper’s position at the Chudley Cannons?” Harry appears in the doorframe, furiously drying his wet after shower hair.  


“Not necessarily at the Cannons, but yeah, that is my brilliant plan,” Ron drops his eyes coyly. “All serious coaches arrange reviews of amateur teams every year, and the Dawn Warriors are one of the strongest among non-professionals. It’s a good sporting start.”  


“Oh right, of course,” Hermione pulls a mocking face. “It is an excellent argument in favor of entering the Academy. And you, Harry, what the hell are you doing in this bodyshop?”  


“Weeell…” he blushes slightly under his friend’s attentive gaze. “Where else could we go with our N.E.W.T.s? McGonagall promised to let me teach DADA if I get Auror training.”  


“Harry, I remember this conversation very well. And she meant the position of a second teacher, like assisting some professor with a normal, university education! Is it really what you want? I can’t believe you both! I dragged myself to this stupid Academy on your heels only to learn at the end of the first year that none of you is attracted to the service at the Auror Office?”  


“We didn’t drag you along with us,” Ron says, offended. “And is it really the first time you hear about our plans for the future?”  


“I couldn’t even think that you actually are capable of such idiocy! And, by the way, I am curious to know, how would you pass the theoretical courses without me? Let’s say, Potions?!”  


”In such case your argument isn’t any smarter than ours,” snorts Harry, squatting beside her. “Before, I would say that you are the last person to do something to join the crowd.”  


“I can hardly leave you!”  


The guys exchange knowing looks.  


“Clearly, because we have post-war syndrome,” Harry articulates their common thought, and Ron giggles, unable to contain himself. After they almost kicked the girl out of home in November due to her constant tries to diagnose them with stress condition, any mention of her new fixation turned into a family joke.  


“It's not funny, Ron!” Hermione gets angry. “It is a very serious problem. I’ve read that the posttraumatic reaction might surface after a couple of months, or so-called period of supposed welfare. Hence both of you understand subconsciously that you couldn’t ever ‘let go of war’ and look to remain a part of the battle brotherhood, that’s why you entered the Academy.”  


She looks triumphantly at both of them and gets up.  


“Where are you heading?” Ron asks with suspicion.  


“Shower, of course. My turn,” the girl answers serenely, pulling a clean towel from a shelf.  


“No way!” he sweeps her up, preventing her from leaving the room. “I am next. I have practice in an hour.”  


“And I have internship at St. Mungo’s!” Hermione swings her feet in the air, trying to kick Ron, but he has too much experience, gained in fights with little sister. “And I have to dry my hair also, have a heart!”  


“Fine, remember my kindness,” Ron suddenly unclasps his arms, and the girl barely has time to tuck herself up in order to land on her feet. “You owe me a lunch then.”  


“Harry cooks today,” she replies. “And I have to be at the hospital by two o’clock.”  


“ _And there’s also a lecture at the Academy afterwards, but you don’t need to know that,_ ” she thinks to herself, disappearing behind the bathroom door, before Ron changes his mind.  


***  


When Hermione concedes the bathroom to Ron, combs her wet hair, and joins Harry, who is bossing around the kitchen, the topic of the practicability of the service in the Auror Office have already run out of steam. Hermione consoles herself with a thought that she can enter the university after the Academy anyway and even try to graduate ahead-of-schedule, if she succeeds in transferring credits for certain courses. Harry, in turn, thinks that it is highly possible that the diagnosis of ‘postwar syndrome’ should, first of all, be applied to Hermione herself. Just look at her excessive anxiety and some unhealthy vigilance of the kind that Alastor Moody never dreamed of. It seems that in the brochure that she tried to slip to Ron and him it was called the ‘alarm-reaction’. All the professors and students at the Academy already got that the girl should not be approached from behind. Last time she almost hexed professor Robin, who just wanted to coordinate with her the time of the Potions lab sessions. Or earlier, when she dotted one to a groupmate’s eye without sorting things out. Apparently, the guy harbored some romantic feelings toward her before the accident. Besides, she grew noticeably thin recently, looked drawn and slept worse. The sudden fancy of the military-style clothes appeared. And it is Hermione who is the most dazzled by the belonging to the battle brotherhood, for that matter. No wonder the idea of creation of Dumbledore’s Army crossed her mind in particular once upon a time.  


Harry even had an idea of why this stupid syndrome affected namely Hermione. She was the only one of their trio, who happened to kill someone. It was after the Battle of Hogwarts, when the weakened Order had to engage its youngest members to catch runaway Death Eaters. George, Ron, Harry, Hermione and some other fighters of the Dumbledore’s Army together with the adults participated in four combat operations. They always used only disarming and binding spells, having decided once and for all that the death even of a worst enemy cannot lift the burden off and recover the wounds. And every time they came back from the mission unscathed. Mostly the dispirited remnants of the Voldemort’s forces surrendered peacefully. But the last, the fourth one, operation went poorly. The new Headmaster of Durmstrang, who did not trust his own ministry, asked the British Auror’s Department for help. A few dozens of the Death Eaters, partly former Karkaroff’s students, have sheltered in his school. But most of them were criminals, who escaped England, so Kingsley gave orders to send his people. The Aurors’ squadron received help from the Order of the Phoenix’s group that included the inseparable Gryffindor trio. And it was them, who were ‘lucky’ to run against a small band under Marcus Flint’s command in the Durmstrang’s dungeons.  


After several hours of pursuit down the winding corridors, the Order managed to bay the opponents on a stone landing behind which was a mountain crevice. A suspension bridge lead through it, but the Death Eaters could not cross it without killing their pursuers first. The latter had no possibility to retreat: the passage through which they came here was blocked, cold gray cliffs rose on the left and on the right, and in front of them the avalanche of curses hailed (with _Incendio_ being the most harmless of them). So, the combat tactics of the group turned out to be as simple as rolling off a log: roaring at the top of their throats (Harry himself cried “Go go go!”, Ron was yelling “Mama!”, and Michael Corner, for some reason, screamed “For Dumbledore!”), they rushed into battle. The Death Eaters, most of whom were of the same age as the attacking members of the Order, did not expect such pressure and were swiftly disarmed. All of them, except for Flint, at whom Hermione jumped out. He did not lower his wand during the first minute of the fighting, repelled the binding spell, sent at him, and had time to fence himself with a quite powerful shield which did not allow the usual _Expelliarmus_ and _Incarcerous_ to push through. Hermione attempted to ruin it with a ramming spell, but at that moment Flint got distracted by Krum, who was approaching from the other side. His shield disappeared for a second, and Hermione’s spell hit him full force. The shriek of Flint, falling into abyss, signalized the end of this short battle, in which two other former Hogwarts’ students died: Katie Bell, whose head was fractured by one of the fallen stone fragments, and Anthony Goldstein, who got under exploding curse.  


After this tragedy Kingsley vehemently forbade the participation of persons, who did not have Auror training, in combat operations. And Hermione… Hermione spent two days in a state of shock, and all that the friends could get out of her was the confession that she was in love with Marcus Flint during their second year. She was snapped out of stupor by Ron’s immediate reaction to this profession. He jumped and blurted, “What about Lockhart?” And then they laughed hysterically, until they started to hiccup, clinging to each other’s shoulders and wiping away the tears with their sleeves. Tears over Remus and Tonks, whose son became an orphan, over Fred, without whom George was a pale image of himself, and almost all of Molly’s hair became gray, over Colin, who died, protecting the castle instead of evacuating with other underage students, over Lavender, who clinged to life in a hospital ward for almost a month, until her heart failed, tears over Dumbledore and Snape, over Katie and Anthony, and even over Flint and all of those lost, entrapped, those who mutilated their souls… “ _Maybe you are right, my friend,_ ” Harry thinks, methodically stirring a sauce, “ _maybe we really did enter the Academy to be around people, who know what it feels like to lose friends and loved ones, who know what it feels like to be guilty of someone’s death. Or to revenge? Or to not let the nightmare we went through, while being helpless teenagers, happen again? Maybe the war really did not let go of us still?”_  


”A knut for your thoughts,” Ron comes up behind his shoulder, smelling of aftershave and dressed in his favorite T-shirt with the Academy’s emblem and the _Dawn Warriors_ caption. Harry knows that his friend does not miss out on the chance to flirt with the fans of his Keeper’s talent, who watch out for him after every practice. He also knows that after Ron and Hermione decided to remain friends not a single girl came close to his heart.  


“I think that quidditch fans are too shallow for you,” he replies finally, putting food on plates.  


“Hey,” Ron mockingly hits Harry’s ribs with his fist. “If someone here thinks that his own established personal life gives him the right to disdain his less fortunate friends and judge their choices, then this someone risks to not get an invite for Easter holidays…”  


“Ron, that’s mean”, snorts Hermione, making a reach for saltcellar.  


“You have to decide between yourselves: am I mean, or am I shallow? I’d wike shom clearansh,” he delivers the last sentence with his mouth already full which calls for a very disapproving look from the girl. “What?” he looks at her defiantly and washes down the remnants of the food with some juice. “I’m late for practice, by the way. And it’s because I conceded, like a gentleman I am, my turn to go to the bathroom to the ungrateful you. And now I don’t even have time to eat decently.”  


“Well, eat then and keep quiet,” Hermione cuts it off coldly. “I also have to go now, and I won’t have a chance to eat until eight in the evening.”  


“ _And in my case, eight in the evening will only be in ten hours,_ ” she adds to herself, unknowingly touching the chain of a Time-Turner, hidden under her clothes.


	2. Chapter 2

Cleaning her clothes after the journey through the fireplace, Hermione desperately envies Ron. At least, one can Apparate to the stadium which the Dawn Warriors reserved for their practices. The St. Mungo’s Hospital, just like the Auror Academy, was covered by the solid Anti-Disapparition dome. These measures were undertaken after the cynical murder of a Ministry worker right in his hospital ward. And though Broderick Bode was strangled by a plant sent by mail (and not by a killer Apparated to the ward), the management of the hospital fairly thought that the security measures should be enhanced with all possible ways to get into hospital considered. The war has ended, but the rules stayed the same: patients are transferred to the hospital with the help of Portkeys, and the staff is forced to get to work either through the main entrance (from the muggle part of London) or through the Floo Network. Hermione herself prefers to get to Mungo’s by foot, but she is late today, so she has to use her least favorite means of transport. Except for flying on broomsticks, of course.  


Another security mean was kept since the war: the necessity to register your wand at the entrance. The Healers have IDs which allow them to do without this wearisome procedure, but Hermione is just a trainee of the Academy’s medical course and should follow all formal rules, established for regular visitors despite the fact that she spends just as much time at the hospital as interns from the Institute of the Wizarding Medicine. Having signed in the register and got her wand back, the girl hurries to the second floor, where the Academy students do practical training.  


The war did not only provoke external, but also called for internal reforming of the hospital: the Healers had to deal with large quantity of wounded which could not be sent to muggle hospitals. As a result, the First-Floor ward, which dealt with magical creature-induced injuries before, now turned into an analogue of the muggle trauma care, accepting patients with injuries of any origin, whether this be a _Sectumsempra_ cut, a hit by a Hippogriff’s beak or a concussion, resulting from falling off a broomstick. The Second and Third Floors fortunately escaped the reforming: magical ailments and diseases and potions and plants poisoning wards are still situated there. The former ward for treatment of spell damage on the Fourth Floor was renamed into the ward of mental injuries. Whereas the Ground Floor has been completely turned into a burn ward, and Hermione remembers with a shudder first five months of internship which she’s spent there: too many familiar faces she met among grievous patients of this Floor. Luckily, modern methods of the Wizarding Medicine and the enhanced regeneration, common to wizards, allow to heal the nastiest burns in less than half a year. So, everyone, who timely fall into the hands of Healers, leave the hospital, having recovered their former appearance. But the girl still can’t get rid of horrible visions, emerging in her mind, as soon as she remembers herself being present during the bandaging of beau Oliver Wood, who got under _Incendio_ during the raid of Durmstrang’s Misty Tower. She almost dropped her plan to obtain two majors in the Academy (field agent-EMT and analyst) that day.  


“ _Maybe I should have given up back then,_ ” she thinks languidly, running on a steep staircase with the maximum speed the aching muscles allow. “ _My nerves are too weak for the Wizarding Medicine. And if it all made sense, when I was planning to be in the same field group with Harry and Ron, then it’s not clear why I need all this suffering now. I’m going to return the Time-Turner back to the Ministry and finish my analytic education at the Academy on an even keel. No more draining practices, no fractures and avulsed wounds, no damned staircases…_ ” With this last resolute thought, she appears before the eyes of her mentor, head of the trauma ward, Healer of the Highest Category Celina Macpherson.  


“Miss Granger,” she greets the out of breath trainee with a graceful nod, while pursing her pale lips disapprovingly, and it vividly reminds Hermione of her beloved Head of House. However, this wasn’t the only similarity between the two proud daughters of Scotland: the Healer was just as much meticulous, as dignified, and she also fervently demanded from the staff the perfection in everything, both appearance and morality. “Would you care to join the medical round when you change your clothes. And perhaps you should reconsider your busy agenda in favor of those undoubtedly vital affairs which prevent you from arriving to the hospital for your traineeship timely.”  


With these words Macpherson, accompanied by a crowd of trainees and interns, queenly floats past the red with humiliation girl. Lisa Turpin gets around to shoot a sympathetic glance at Hermione, and the guys from the Academy, Jasper Folvig and Petros Appolinaris, simultaneously tap her on the shoulders, calling up hundreds of the same silent gestures of consolation from the Weasley twins. The grief covers her with a stifling wave. It seems, come another second, and Hermione will fall on her knees right in the middle of the corridor, howling like a beast from an unexpectedly sharp feeling of loss. But the second passes, followed by another, and then she begins to move towards the staff room to leave her coat in a storage locker and put on her uniform. With every step made her resolution to follow the acrid advice of the mentor and to finally drop this damned practice grows stronger.  


***  


When her on-call duty is almost over, Hermione finds herself thinking that today turns out to be not so terrible to make any landmark decisions on its grounds. Her traineeship peers, seeing the girl’s miserable state, tried their hardest to support her, and even Macpherson relented and let a grudging praise slip, when Hermione correctly diagnosed a patient with internal injury. After a noisy tea-party in the staff room the girl is surprised by herself: is it possible that only this afternoon she was actually planning to refuse for good this ravishing feeling which the company of like-minded people gives her? Could she really give up the traineeship and never experience what it is to save lives? Would she really forgo the possibility to learn something new?  


Hermione lusciously stretches herself in a comfortable chair and, without getting up, levitates dirty cups to the table beside the sink. Typically, she is the last of her group to leave. The afternoon on-call duty ends at seven p.m., so she has one hour left to visit patients she knows and then to come back in time and go to a lecture at the Academy, which starts at four. The classes at the Academy are until eight in the evening, and it coincides exactly with the visiting hours at St. Mungo’s, so it is not hard for Hermione to explain to Harry and Ron why she comes home an hour late. Though sometimes she is astonished by their unobservance and even takes silent offence that friends pay her so little attention: for the second time in her life she uses a Time-Turner throughout the whole school year, and not a single second of suspicion, not even a slightest inkling occurred in their minds of at what exact costs she studies two majors at once. However, there are almost six months until the end of this academic year.  


Previously, this extra hour was not enough for the girl to visit all three wards (on the Ground, Third and Fourth Floors) where her friends and acquaintances were. Fortunately, most of them were discharged from the hospital long time ago, and now she only visits as a guest the ward of mental injuries, where Neville’s parents still are. Frank Longbottom is worse, he stopped getting out of bed and reacting at visitors entirely, but Alice, on the contrary, now looks much better, than she did three years ago, when Hermione first saw her. She even began to recognize her son, though she cannot perceive how old is he now. But, at least, she remembers his face, and his visits make her happy. Somehow, she is even happier to see Hermione. This unexpected reaction on the girl’s visits appeared in the fall, when she just started traineeship at St. Mungo’s and visited the Longbottoms for the first time. Alice rushed to embrace her and then started to babble something, choking on words, so her speech consisted of convulsive sobs mixed up with separate syllables. But, according to Healer Marquez, who has been observing the Longbottoms for many years now, it was a clear progress. And, although in the general frustrating picture this success does not look significant, there is hope that the woman will have the ability to speak again. Which means that the intellect is not completely destroyed.  


It is empty and quiet at the Fourth Floor, since there aren’t many patients here, and most of them almost always is under the sway of medical sleep. The lights in the corridor are dimmed, and the desk lamp shines brightly on the Healer on duty's post. Apparently, they left for a minute, since their wand is on the piled with treatment sheets desk. Hermione frowns at the sight of such negligence, for which an Academy student, for example, would be immediately expelled. And the unforgettable Moody would also tear off some arms ‘for criminal slackitude and loss of vigilance’. “ _Lucky you, not being an Auror, and me not being Moody,_ ” snorts Hermione, continuing to move along the corridor. But at the same time the familiar chills run over the back of her head, always faultlessly signaling the girl that someone is looking daggers at her. Well, okay, **almost** always faultlessly. She turns around sharply, crouching and pulling out her wand from the case on her left wrist at the same time, and exhales slowly, biting on the spell ready to escape her lips.  


There is no mistake this time. Gregory Goyle is looking at her with savage hatred from behind the glass door of the ward. His pale, pressed against the glass face reminds a creepy mask, and his gnarled fingers, clutching on the doorframe, and furious, fiery eyes flesh out the picture of an undoubtedly aggressive madness.  


“ _If only that stupid Plymouth could see you now,_ ” Hermione thinks with disgust, putting her wand back in the case and turning away from the former fellow student, “ _he wouldn’t challenge my observations._ ” It was in the fall that the full-on conflict broke out between her and the Healer-in-Charge of mental injuries. Back then it crossed the girl’s mind to visit the Slytherin as well as her other acquaintances. Goyle behaved quietly, obediently said hello, thanked for the fruit she brought him and even listened keenly to the news of the repairment works, going on at Hogwarts, and about his housemates, none of whom found time to visit him at the hospital. Malfoy with his parents was under house arrest at his Manor, Crabbe was dead, and Goyle didn’t have any other close friends. Despite the fact, that the visit went smoothly, something put Hermione on the alert, and she started to examine the harmless at first sight patient more closely. After a couple of weeks of observations, she came to the Healer-in-Charge with her suspicions and argued for a solid hour that Goyle is dangerous and should be put to the St. Catherine’s Hospital in France, the closest special care institution which could provide the schizophrenic patient with the right care and treatment, as well as safely isolate him. The conversation ended with Healer Plymouth literally pushing the girl out of his office, yelling for the whole corridor to hear that pathetic trainees, having read too much of worthless muggle trash, will not tell him where to put his patients and which treatment to prescribe them anymore, unless they want to be admitted to the ward he is entrusted with. Hermione suspects heavily that Plymouth’s unwillingness to part with the dangerous patient has something to do with Mrs. Goyle’s unprecedented generosity, but it seems impossible to prove.  


Inhaling deeply to calm down after a nervous shake-up, the girl attaches a cordial smile to her pale face and opens the door to the Longbottoms' ward.  


***  


“This Mudblood darts about here again,” Goyle listens to the sound of fading steps and, having withdrew from the door, sits back on his bed. “She is constantly nosing about something to snitch to the damn pointy-headed cat afterwards…”  


“Besides, she wanted to curse you, Greg.”  


“Vince! It’s been so long since you’ve visited me!” Goyle turns to his friend, who stands, leaning carelessly to the doorframe./br. 

“You only should have called me. You know I will never leave you.”  


Goyle also has chills running around his back, when Crabbe’s lips, swelling with bloody blisters, bare his charred jaw in a creepy parody of a smile. But in the end, it’s Vince, his best friend who came to him when everybody left him: Draco, his father, even his mom, who only looks at him from behind this damned glass and quietly sheds tears, but never comes inside the ward to hug and kiss him. But Vince came, and it’s not his fault that he looks so bad now. It’s all damn Harry Potter and his crummy friends plotted, so Vince could not get out of that room. But they will pay for it. And Goyle smiles weakly in return.  


“They think that, since they took away your wand, they can easily turn their backs on you,” continues Crabbe. “They think you’re dumb. Think they can lock you up here alone first, poke their wands at your face, and then turn their backs on you. It’s time to teach them a lesson, Greg.”  


“Sure, Vince. Will you let me out of here?”  


Crabbe shakes his head. A scrap of skin, coming off his forehead, falls to his eyes, and he blows at it like one blows away a strand of hair. The scrap swings, but does not come at its place, so Crabbe tears it away. Goyle can’t bear it and looks away, starting to contemplate the explored to the finest details still-life painting above his bed with the exaggerated attention.  


“You can get out yourself, Greg,” Crabbe clearly noticed his confusion, but there is no bitterness at his friend in his voice. Only mockery. Goyle swallows the lump in his throat, still trying to look anywhere, but Vince. He puts his palm on the door handle, feeling the familiar prickling and light itch. “They took away your wand, but they couldn’t deprive you of magic. You’ve been practicing, like I told you, right?”  


Goyle nods silently, remembering how long and agonizingly he was mastering a couple of simplest wandless spells. And how this nasty Mudblood was always trying to peep at what he is doing. But Vince warned him that nobody should know about his practices. Vince is very cunning. He wouldn’t do it without Vince’s help.  


“Come on! _Alohomora_! Come on, Greg, it’s time. Do it, you can!” Vince’s eyes have predatory sparkles in them. He runs his tongue on his disfigured lips impatiently.  


“ _Alohomora_!” Goyle whispers, setting his magic free. The door opens with a sad creak, and suddenly Goyle wants to come back to his bed, crawl under the blanket and lay there until they bring him evening potions, so he could sleep until the morning and not listen to Crabbe’s whispering. But that wouldn’t be fair, Vince would take offence, and he doesn’t want to hurt his best friend at all. His only friend, who have just helped him to open the door. Maybe now he could go home and hug his mom. But first he should teach the Mudblood a lesson, so she would never dare to spy on Slytherins again.  


“You should teach them all a lesson,” Crabbe nods. “Follow me.”  


Goyle steps out into the half-light corridor. The nasty Gryffindor know-it-all vanished into thin air.  


“What should I do, Vince?” Goyle asks his strolling away friend.  


“Do as I do,” Crabbe answers, spreading his arms, so that his fingers touch both walls. Goyle mimics his movement, looking mesmerized at how thin fiery snakes slip off Vince’s fingers, how they clamber the walls, leaving coal-black traces, eat away frames of portraits, hanging along the corridor, making their way into slits under the wards’ doors.  


“I can’t do that,” Goyle complains.  


Crabbe turns around, and a smile of triumph once again turns his mutilated face into a grinning skull. Without saying a word, he puts out his hand, pointing his elongated finger somewhere behind his friend’s shoulder. A little flame dances at the tip of his finger. Goyle obediently turns around a sees a wand, laying on the Healer on duty's desk.  


“It’s time, Greg. Prove them all that you’re not dumb.”  



	3. Chapter 3

Mrs. Longbottom is restless today. Hermione sits with her for almost half an hour, but Alice’s nervousness is only growing up. The woman is anxiously babbling something, gripping her guest’s hands and looking right into her eyes. In the meantime, the visiting hours are nearing their end, and Hermione, knowing the ward’s schedule perfectly, is waiting for the Healer on duty’s arrival with evening potions any minute now. At least she gets up from her chair, carefully frees her wrist from Alice’s slack cool hand and goes to the door. Only now the girl smells a distinct scent of smoke in the corridor. Flinging the door open, with her wand at the ready she shoots out of the ward to find that the opposite end of the corridor is engulfed in flames. The Healer on duty is running towards her in panic, knocking all the doors on her way and screaming “Fire! Everyone, come out to the corridor!” Which, essentially, is a complete lunacy, counting that the door to Goyle’s ward is already covered by the wall of flames. Lockhart obeyingly follows the Healer, but there are no other patients on the floor, who are able to leave the wards on their own, except for Mrs. Longbottom.  


“Marie, keep it real!” Hermione shakes the girl’s shoulders, once she makes it to her. “Where is the patient from the ward no. 9, Mr. Goyle?”  


Marie is working at St. Mungo’s since January 1st, having graduated the Paris University only last year. Hermione has a persistent feeling that Professor Plymouth shouldn’t have hired an employee who is more interested in her thesis on mental status’ deviations, than in actually helping patients. But it is not a good time now to show personal dislike, and Hermione patiently repeats her question until a gleam of sense appears in Marie’s haunted look.  


“I don’t know. When I came back, everything was already on fire there. What should we do?” The Healer’s eyes are full of tears, lips trembling like a scared child. And though she, most likely, is of Hermione’s age or even a few years older, you clearly can’t expect any kind of responsibility or adult behavior from her now.  


“Listen to me!” Hermione shakes her once again just in case, nudging her towards the Longbottoms’ ward. “You will take Mr. Lockhart and Mrs. Longbottom to the ground floor now. Ask everyone you meet on your way for help. We need people to help evacuating the remaining three wards and Mr. Longbottom. And they should turn off the Anti-Disapparition barrier. Did you understand me, Marie?”  


The girl keeps nodding like a bobblehead. “Turn off the barrier. But how should I do that?”  


Hermione curses through clenched teeth. Usually her self-control is enough not to demonstrate all the unfeminine skills she gained through the long years of war which she has spent mainly among men. But now this stupid French girl is driving her mad.  


“You tell that to the security. Or someone else down there. Mr. Lockhart!”  


Gilderoy, who was aimlessly staring at the Healer Clifthammer’s portrait throughout the conversation, immediately turns to Hermione, giving his famous smile. “How can I help you, beautiful lady? Would you like me to sign something for you?”  


“Yes, Mr. Lockhart, that would be lovely, but your fans are waiting for you. You have to be signing things downstairs,” the wizard’s smile becomes wider. “This lovely girl will lead you there, together with this lady. They both are your huge fans,” with these words Hermione is dragging Alice, who is standing at the ward’s doorstep, to the corridor and hooks her hand around Gilderoy’s gallantly offered elbow. “Marie, take them downstairs quickly and call for help!”,/br>

It seems that the Healer regained herself more or less. At least, she orders quite firmly. “Follow me, Mr. Lockhart!” and all three of them go out of sight, turning around the corridor to the safety staircase. Hermione runs in an opposite direction. The ward no. 7 is the first one in the fire’s way. There are two patients there, then one patient in the wards no. 5 and no. 4 each, and, finally, Frank Longbottom in the ward no. 2. But the girl sincerely hopes that it will be possible to finish the evacuation with the Apparition, as soon as the hospital’s management lifts off the barrier. Right now, she has to send Mr. Hooper and Dennis Creevey, the patients of the ward no. 7, downstairs as soon as possible. The flames are already approaching them. The girl conjures a stream of water, which makes the fire step back a little, and goes inside the ward. The smell of smoke here is stronger than in the corridor. Apparently, it is because the wards have a common ventilation system, and the smoke penetrates from the neighboring room, which is already completely on fire. But both patients are calmly sleeping under the potions’ effect.  


Hermione doesn’t know what Mr. Hooper is treated for, but he has been in this ward long before the start of her traineeship at St. Mungo’s, and she never saw him awake in all these months. Dennis, however, got into the hospital quite recently because of the nervous breakdown and severe insomnia that Madam Pomfrey couldn’t handle. So, Plymouth casted him into deep sleep. “ _Which means that I can’t wake them up and will have to levitate both,_ ” the girl thinks, enchanting the hand frame. She takes Dennis first, then levitates him to the corridor, pours some more water on the approaching fire and comes back for Mr. Hooper. Going by the Healer on duty’s desk, Hermione scoops documents from it and puts them on Dennis’s hand frame. She hurries along the corridor, trying to Disapparate every ten steps, but the barrier is still working.  


Finally, they reach the staircase which turns out to be too narrow to levitate two hand frames at once. Hermione puts Mr. Hooper on the floor and hurries downstairs, transporting younger Creevey. Another obstacle is to pass the turns. She has to set the hand frame angle-wise in order to turn them around, while also stabilizing the boy and scattering treatment sheets. So, after getting over only one floor, the girl sighs in relief, when she hears a bustle down the staircase.  


“Hey!” She shouts, hanging her head down the stairwell. “Is there anybody?”  


“Hermione?” a male voice answers from downstairs, and a familiar blond head appears in the stairwell several floors below.  


“Chris!” Chris Cheney is a Junior Healer, who works under Marquez’s command, and another friend Hermione met here. “Chris, I need some help! We have to evacuate the ward. Levitate Dennis downstairs and come back for Mr. Hooper, he is by the staircase on the fourth floor. And I’m going to go take the patients from no. 5 and no. 4.”  


“Hermi! You can wake up Mrs. Cringees.”  


“Is that a woman from no. 4? Any new patients recently?”  


“No, all the old ones. Go, I’ll take care of Dennis,” Chris’s voice is inches away now, and she hears the hub-hub downstairs, which means that someone else is running to help. Not wasting any more time, the girl turns around and runs back, but, just as she shoots out into the fourth floor’s corridor, she realizes that she should have told Chris about the Anti-Disapparition barrier.  


“You stupid, stupid, stupid!” she curses herself through clenched teeth, trying to catch her breath after a rush on the staircase.  


This time a thick veil of smoke is hanging in the corridor, and the ward, from which she just took two patients, is absorbed by fire now. Hermione bursts in to Mrs. Cringees, a gray-haired witch who looks like she is of Dumbledore’s age, first, casts a fast waking spell and, without waiting for it to work, darts to the neighboring ward, where there is some middle-aged woman, who got into St. Mungo’s only last week. Having levitated her on the hand frame into the corridor, Hermione comes back for Mrs. Cringees, who is sitting on her bed, turning her head around confusedly and blinking her half-blind eyes. “ _Wasn’t it easier to send her on the hand frame too?_ ” the girl hesitates, but tries to revive the woman anyway. “Mrs. Cringees! We will go to some other place now,” she yells to the patient’s ear. “Do you understand me?”  


“I understand you very well, young lady, there’s no need to shout!” Mrs. Cringees answers her coolly. Her voice sounds unexpectedly firm and clear. “I have bad sight, but I can hear wonderfully.”  


Hermione pulls off her uniform, staying in Muggle jeans and turtleneck only, and throws it on the shoulders of the witch, who is only wearing a long thin nightdress.  


“Take my hand, Mrs. Cringees,” she orders and leads the patient along the corridor, levitating the hand frame with her free hand.  


Chris is already rushing towards them.  


“The fire on the main staircase is spreading downstairs, it is now between the fourth and third floors,” he reports, choking. “There’s nothing to do here, until the Aurors arrive, so everybody darted to the staircase to save the rest of the building. We will finish the evacuation ourselves.”  


“Can we Disapparate yet?” Hermione coughs and suddenly feels that the situation is really serious. Her back starts to burn, and, having turned around, she finds that the wall of flame has just reached the Healer on duty’s desk.  


“Oh, crap! How did I not think about it,” Chris groans, scooping Mrs. Cringees, which draws an outraged cackle out of the old woman. He and Hermione now switch from the fast pace to run.  


“I’m surprised how those, who should have, did not think about it,” the girl answers, choking and making another try to Disapparate. “That will also help the Aurors to come quick enough.”  


“I’m telling you: everybody’s busy putting out the fire on the main staircase,” with these words Chris puts Mrs. Cringees on the floor. “Go down, and I will take Mr. Longbottom. Come on, Hermi, move.”  


Not waiting for an answer, Chris dives into the smokescreen, and Hermione starts another descend on the staircase, supporting the coughing and trembling witch and trying to direct the hand frame which brushes against the walls and stair railing over and over again. “ _This day will never end,_ ” she thinks hopelessly, realizing she can’t feel her legs anymore. They barely get to the third floor, when Mrs. Cringees slips down on the steps, groaning and seemingly fainting. “I’m going to have to go get help,” dragging the witch to the third floor’s corridor, the girl runs towards the main staircase, levitating the hand frame. She is hoping with all her heart that the hospital staff managed to hold off the flames from spreading down. The ward of poisonings is even emptier and quieter than the ward of mental injuries. If there were any patients here, they have been already taken downstairs.  


“Help! Can anybody hear me?!” her voice rings along the echoing corridor. The smell of smoke grows stronger, but there is no such tremendous hear here as the one running above. When Hermione reaches the main staircase, two random Healers in fuming sooty uniforms leap out towards her with fire roaring behind their backs. “So, the flames went further nonetheless?” she asks an idiotic in its obviousness question.  


“It’s okay, there are Aurors downstairs,” one of the men comforts her, taking the hand frame without much words and turning it around. “They will pour everything here with their wonder-spell. They said that the second floor won’t even have to be evacuated.”  


Hermione just sighs. They teach the mentioned spell, the pride and joy of the firefighting team of the Auror Office, only during the last year at the Academy. If she had mastered it, then, perhaps, she could stop the flames, when the fire has just started. Although, most likely, she still wouldn’t manage everything on her own. She saw once how the guys from the firefighting team work, and she even regretted at the moment that there is no way she will handle a third major. She thought that it’s irrational to dedicate her life exclusively to the firefighting: the team is rarely engaged, only when the fire is happening at the magical facility, where you can’t call average firefighters, or when it’s too difficult to explain the ignition cause to muggle authorities.  


If the Aurors arrived, then the danger has passed. Only now Hermione allows herself to confess how sick and tired she is. With every step she falls further behind the men, and, at last, weakly waves her hand at them, telling not to wait for her and leaning to the wall.  


“Do you need any help, Miss?” one of the Healers turns around.  


“No,” Hermione shakes her head, in case they didn’t hear her answer. Clearing her throat, she repeats louder. “No, it’s okay, I’ll catch up with you in a minute. There is a woman further along the corridor, she needs help.”  


Both nod, showing that they understood her, and hurry to the staircase, while the girl, still clinging to the wall, slowly follows them. She almost reaches the landing around the corner, when a tall broad-shouldered man in hospital clothes comes up in front of her.  


“Goyle?!” Hermione gasps in shock, reaching for her wand, but a huge hand catches her wrist and pushes her to an open crack door, behind which, apparently, Goyle was hiding all this time. The room is a quite spacious lab, where the Healers prepare antidotes.  


Goyle drags her to the center of the room, still holding her wrist in such a position that the girl can’t get her wand and has to stand on her tiptoes, without thinking of anything other than an ominous fracture of her working, wand arm. Locking the lab’s door with a _Colloportus_ the Slytherin looks heavily at his prisoner, and his face is absolutely mad. All possible persuasive speeches catch in the girl’s throat. In the end, she didn’t have practice on mental injuries yet and has no idea how exactly to talk to completely insane former school enemy, with whom she happens to be locked on an empty floor of the partly evacuated hospital. The only thing that comes to her mind is to try Disapparating again, but the barrier is still there. “ _They won’t lift it off now,_ ” she thinks hopelessly. “ _No reason to do it, when the fire will be put out soon. Merlin, how screwed I am!_ ”  


“What are you snooping around her for, Mudblood?” Goyle finally breaks the silence. “And where are your cronies?”  


“I’m alone here, Greg…” Hermione starts with the softest voice she’s capable of in such circumstances, but a huge fist, with a wand held in it, slams into her face. “ _I will personally kill that idiot Marie,_ ” is the only sane thought that crosses the girl’s mind. She feels the panic flooding her.  


“Quiet, you piece of shit!” Goyle slightly moves her captured hand, and the girl, hissing in pain, has to turn her whole body around to avoid fracture. “Draco warned that this damned Potter also wants to find that thing. Have you come for it, yes? But Vince and I outran you!” He shakes her in triumph, causing another scream of pain. “You will never find that thing, because Vince and I have taken care of it,” with these words he points his wand to the door, and it bursts into flames like a dry tree from a lightning strike.  


Hermione squeezes her eyes in horror: for a short moment it feels like they are at Hogwarts again, at the Room of Requirement, and the Fiendfyre will consume them now, just as it consumed Vincent Crabbe. But when she realizes that Goyle conjured a regular fire, the thought doesn’t bring her consolation. On the contrary, the death from the regular flame will most likely be longer and more agonizing. The fire quickly spreads around the lab, the phials start to burst, and the heat becomes unbearable.  


“Greg, listen to me!” The girl pleads desperately. “I am not going to take anything from here. Let’s get out together, cause we’ve already done it before, remember? Remember Ron and I dragged you out of the fire?”  


“I’m not going out of here without Vince,” Goyle finally lets go of her arm, but the wall of fire now surrounds them an all sides, and there’s nowhere to run.  


“Greg, Vince is not here,” she softly touches his arm, trying to cast a simple calming spell Chris taught her once, when Mrs. Longbottom got hysterical. “Let me get my wand, pour us over with water, and we will try to get out of here?”  


Goyle’s eyes flash dangerously at the word ‘wand’, and the girl steps back in panic. Her back gets hot, and she smells a disgusting odor of burning hair. “ _Oh Merlin, that’s my hair burning!_ ” she starts to tap her back and neck panicking, and suddenly her hand comes across the Time-Turner’s chain.  


“Greg!” she desperately tries to speak calmly, ignoring the hair’s crackle and the clothes which is literally burnt to her body. “Greg, I won’t use my wand,” she extracts the Time-Turner from underneath her turtleneck and shows it to Goyle. “Stand closer to me, and I will carry us away from here.”  


Goyle makes a couple of uncertain steps. It seems like he doesn’t notice that his clothes are already fuming, as if he is in trance. Not waiting for a distinct answer, Hermione throws the chain over him and starts to hurriedly adjust the device. But at that moment Goyle snaps out of stupor, whips away the Time-Turner from her hand and, discarding all the settings, yells desperately “Vince!” and breaks off, reaching his hands into the flames. The girl tries to catch the sleeve of his hospital pajamas, but at the same time the links of the chain break up, and Hermione is covered by the wave of darkness and pain. The rageful hell of the exploded lab takes another former Hogwarts student for good.  


***  


“My year is definitely cursed,” Draco Malfoy whispers, putting away morning issue of the Daily Prophet with trembling hands.  


“What’s in there?” Lucius asks indifferently, while looking through his correspondence. Not getting an answer, he raises his head and looks at his son closely. “You’re deadly pale. What happened now?”  


“Goyle died,” Draco’s teeth clatter against his coffee cup. Lucius softly takes the coffee away from his son and moves a glass of water towards him. “Also in the fire. And Granger as well.”  


The older Malfoy shoots a sidelong glance at the screaming headline: ‘Tragedy at the St. Mungo’s Hospital. The War Heroine dies evacuating patients.’ 

“They haven’t found the bodies yet,” Draco continues, seeing that his father isn’t going to read the article. “But Greg’s ward burned to the ground, and the lab on the third floor exploded. And they found there…” he swallows heavily, “they found parts of a body there. Or bodies. They think it’s Granger, but there will be expert examination.”  


Lucius takes the newspaper, quickly reviewing the article: the fourth floor, the one with Goyle’s ward, burned out completely, all other patients were evacuated. Patient Frank Longbottom and Healer Christian Cheney suffered burns and burning-product poisoning; Hermione Granger, who was a trainee at the hospital, provided evacuation of the fourth floor. She was last seen at the poisoning ward, where the lab suddenly ignited after the squadron of Aurors, who arrived at the site, localized the fire on the fourth floor. The ignition causes are not determined, it is suspected that the arson took place, considering two initial fires. The expert examination of the human body’s fragments, found at the third floor, will be conducted. In the meantime, Gregory Goyle and Hermione Granger are considered missing. Then there was a whole page-long, choking in half admiration, half grief tale about heroic Granger and her merits before the magical community.  


“Blimey, I wouldn’t recognize her here,” Draco comments, examining the photos which illustrate the article.  


“She looks quite herself,” Lucius disagrees, ready to discuss anything, if it distracts his son from the shock he has just experienced. “I remember her just like that. Well, maybe a little younger.”  


He takes one more close look to the photo which, it seems, was taken from the school yearbook of the sixth year, since Granger is wearing Hogwarts uniform with the prefect badge pinned to her chest. It is difficult to imagine that this pesky, brassy girl, Draco’s personal rival for the place of the school’s top student, best friend of threadbare Potter, is now referred to with the cold word ‘fragments’. He unknowingly touches the photo with the tips of his fingers, smoothing it out. Yes, she barely changed since their last meeting: same soft, well-rounded features, dark eyes and ugly bush of hair. Lucius remembers on the spot that he saw the girl in his own Manor a little less than a year ago. But the faces of the prisoners, whom Fenrir dragged to the Malfoy Manor, were covered with bruises and splashed with mud then, so that meeting couldn’t significantly influence his opinion on Granger’s appearance.  


“No, I’m talking about this photo,” Draco points the smaller image with the Gryffindor trio pictured all together. The photo was made somewhere in the mountains. All three of them are sitting, hanging their legs in the air, and look to the camera, turning around their shoulders. Potter, as usual, in the middle, dirty-faced Weasley on his right, and on his left… Yes, logic suggests that it should be know-it-all Granger, and the caption to the photo says the same…  


“This can’t be it,” Lucius says quietly, folding the newspaper in four and pressing it with his coffee cup for good measure, as if he’s afraid that the Prophet will unfold by itself.  


“What are you talking about, father?”  


Draco looks in amazement at the color draining away from his father’s face. The older Malfoy gets up from the table, takes a few unsure steps towards the exit from the dining room, then comes back quickly, grabs the Prophet’s issue again and disappears with it on the second floor, having forgotten all his letters at the table.  



	4. Chapter 4

_The pain blooms like a rampant red dahlia, like those that mom grows in the garden in front of their house, and explodes with the ringing in her ears through which anxious voices barely make their way. “Miss! Miss, what’s your name? Whom should we contact for you?”_  


_“Harry and Ron,” she tries to answer, but can’t push a single sound through raw burnt throat. The attempt ends with ruthless bout of coughing which pulls her lungs to shreds._  


_“Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” coarse fingers unclench her teeth, and a thick liquid flows along her throat._  


_“Liquid sleep,” she recognizes the potion’s taste with relief. “It will all be over soon then.”_  


_“Wait a little more,” a female voice coaxes her, and the tired eyelids with charred eyelashes make their last effort.  
_

The patient tries to focus her misty eyes on the Healer’s face and falls into a deep sleep, taking with her the memory of vaguely familiar blue eyes. The Junior Healer of the potions and plant poisoning ward Celina Macpherson carefully arranges the injured girl on a hand frame and orders the interns, crowding around her. “Levitate her to the ground floor, let them register her as a victim of an artefact accident.”  


Having sent the mysterious patient to her colleagues from the Ground Floor, the Healer Macpherson immediately gets her out of the head. Sure, the case is intriguing, and the entire hospital is buzzing for the whole week, trying to guess where did she Apparate from. The most persistent ones look through magical press, looking for a mention of a large fire at the wizarding house, but the mystery remains unsolved. And Celina Macpherson is not one of those who spend their precious time on vain curiosity.  


***  


The fog in her head is clearing step by step, making way for increasing pain. “ _Not good,_ ” Hermione thinks, tracing in her mind the bandages, covering her face and neck, circle after circle. Having slightly moved her fingers, she realizes that her hands are bandaged too. Her next thought is about her wand, and the girl, overcoming a sting in her heavy eyelids, makes an attempt to open her eyes. Despite the fact that there’s saving twilight prevailing around, her eyes immediately start to water, but Hermione has time to notice a high ceiling and distinctive hospital beds. “ _I am at St. Mungo’s,_ ” she concludes. “ _I have to urgently figure out what date it is today. Was there a fire, or it will happen later?_ ” As long as she understands, the Time-Turner was also taken away from her, so, perhaps, the management of the hospital already knows about it. And it won’t be a grave violation to warn them about Goyle’s madness. Or will it? Is there a possibility to somehow prevent him from dying without meddling with other events that should happen? “ _Like, how, in such case, the fact that you’re laying here with grave burns, received exactly because Goyle was allowed to get away, should be avoided?_ ” Sometimes Hermione hates the voice of rationalism in her head. The fact that it is always right drives her crazy at times. “ _Okay,_ ” she tries to take the unsolvable problem by storm, “ _what if I organize everything so that the Aurors rush to the lab right after I go back in time? Then, maybe, they can pull Goyle out at the last moment, and all the other events will remain unchanged…_ ”  


Headache and nausea increase considerably, and Hermione realizes that if she can’t find some strength in herself to get up right now, she will most likely zone out again. Blinking away burning tears, she opens her eyes again and tries to sit on her bed. As expected, she is fixated in a laying position with magical belts, a standard procedure to protect unconscious patients. She was trained to make and lift off this spell wandlessly. Having finally sat upright, Hermione glances at a bedside table on her right, but there’s nothing on it. “ _What a surprise!_ ” her inner voice comments mockingly. “ _Did you really expect that they will make it **that** easy for you?_”  


Hermione hangs her legs from the bed, leaning on a table, overcomes the vertigo bout and looks around. There are three more beds in her ward, two of them empty, but the third one, closest to the door, has someone sleeping on it. Clinging to the folding screen the girl gets up, restores her balance and starts to move in slow steps towards the exit. Passing by the occupied bed she assures herself completely that she is in the burn ward: the hands and face of her wardmate are covered by distinctive off-white scars, meaning that the regenerative process entered into the last stage, when Healers don’t apply any methods anymore, but just put the patient into a deep remedial sleep. After a couple of weeks all the injuries of the skin covering heal themselves, not leaving any scars, under the effect of the person’s own magic. She glances at her hands: she clearly still has painful bandagings, cicatrizing salves treatment and other unpleasant procedures ahead. One thing is good though: judging by the fact that she is not entirely bandaged, the burnt area is not as wide as she though first. But her face and… And hair…  


“ _You will not think about it now!_ ” Her bitchy alter ego roughly cuts off an upcoming hysterical fit. “ _Get to know the date first, and then you can pity yourself._ “ Clenching her teeth, Hermione clumsily presses the doorknob, pushes the door with her shoulder and tumbles out into the corridor. Panic and fear overwhelm her mind for a moment: this quiet half-dark corridor with the lit, empty desk of the Healer on duty is very similar to the beginning of the nightmare she went through only recently. She even thinks she sees someone’s shadow flash at the far end of the corridor, and the air grows hot. But no, this is another corridor and another time, and even the light comes from an antique oil lamp which doesn’t look like the one that was on Marie’s desk that evening. Hermione sighs in relief and, clinging to the wall, nears the Healer on duty’s post. Just as she expected, the charmed calendar with different picturesque views of magical Britain replacing each other on it every ten seconds hangs above the desk. A watch face dimly glows in one of its corners, and the other one has a quite detailed weather forecast, including the wind direction, atmosphere pressure and probability of the natural disasters of all kinds. But Hermione’s eyes are firmly enthralled to the date, situated right in the middle of the calendar.  


“ _April 6th?! April?! Holy Merlin, I’ve missed Ron’s birthday. And George’s. Or…_ ” Hermione sinks into the chair, realizing in time that her legs can’t hold her anymore. “ _What does it mean, am I in the midst of the war again? Voldemort is still alive, and Harry, Ron and… and I… We’re hiding at Bill and Fleur’s now? Or have we already been to Gringotts? Where did that damned Goyle send me?!_ ” She starts to fumble around the desk in panic, looking for another calendar, which would have a year indicated on it, or better a caption that all of it is a just a bad dream or someone’s stupid joke.  


“Stop freaking out!” She orders herself in whisper, and that moment notices a neat stack of treatment sheets at the end of the desk. “ _See, it’s easy, if you try to turn your head on at least for a while instead of writhing in hysterics…_ ”  


She finds the only sheet with the bold question mark in the ‘Name’ field quite fast. The description of the burns she got catches her eyes first, but before she has time to thoroughly investigate the prescribed treatments, made by someone named Weiss, her eyes run onto a line, which makes her mouth go dry and her heart somersault in her chest. ‘Arrived to the ward of the artefact accidents on February 17th 1971.’ Later, Hermione couldn’t say exactly for how long she sat there, looking at her treatment sheet with a blank expression. Just as she couldn’t say what she was thinking. The sound of the steps, resonating from afar in a deserted corridor, snap her out of stupor. The girl hastily tucks the sheet in the middle of the stack and hurries towards her ward with the maximum speed her trembling legs allow. Hermione is able to quickly locate the door she needs and get to her bed without getting caught only thanks to the slate, saying 'Mrs. McBerry, face and hands’ burns due to the explosion of a cauldron; Miss N., plural burns of an unidentified origin'. She barely manages to conjure the magical belts back, when the elderly Healer enters the ward.  


“Mrs. McBerry,” the woman calls in a soft voice. “Are you awake?”  


Hermione decides not to pretend to be sleeping. “Ma’am? It was I who called,” her own voice seems hoarse and cracked.  


The woman hastily approaches her bed and sinks to a chair beside it.  


“Miss, how long have you been awake? How are you feeling?”  


“For about fifteen minutes, I’m not sure. My head hurts, eyes are dripping, and I’m very thirsty.”  


The Healer takes off the safeguarding with a wave of her hand and, having the girl sit comfortably, conjures a glass of water for her.  


“I’m Healer Weiss,” she introduces herself. “I’m responsible for your treatment. What’s your name, Miss?”  


Hermione isn’t ready for this question, but the Healer regards her confusion in her own way, unwittingly giving the girl a cue to a temporary way out.  


“You don’t remember your name?”  


“No,” she answers instantly, clinging to the good guise. “Where am I, and how did I get here?”  


The woman sighs.  


“You are at the St. Mungo’s Hospital. You were found in one of the wards on the third floor. We suppose that you have Apparated there. What do you remember?”  


“I remember the fire,” Hermione decides to add some true information. “There was no way out, my clothes and hair were burning…” her voice breaks suddenly.  


“There, there, calm down, the danger has passed,” the Healer pats her shoulder compassionately. “Your burns heal quite well, and your hair will grow back. Tell me, does anything, besides your head, hurt? The skin underneath the bandages…”  


Hermione listens closely to her senses and shakes her head. “No, just a small itch and the feeling like… like my skin dried out. It’s annoying, but it doesn’t hurt, no.”  


“Good,” the woman nods curtly. “I will refresh the cooling and softening charms, and the unpleasant sensations will go away. But we will have to go over the scars’ treatment a couple more times, before we let them heal on their own. We don’t want to ruin this pretty face with scars, do we?”  


The girl smiles skeptically, but the Healer, apparently, cannot see it under the bandages.  


“I could put you back to the remedial sleep before the moment the bandages can be removed completely, if you want.”  


Hermione thinks for just a few moments. There’s no one in this time to visit her, she doesn’t have anything to do and doesn’t even want to think about anything. Perhaps, the most delightful prospect is to get away of the problems which unexpectedly got in her way.  


“Yes, I want to fall asleep,” she says finally.  


“Keep in mind, though, that the regeneration process is a little slower when you’re asleep.”  


“I’m not in a hurry,” Hermione says decisively. “ _To sleep and not to think about anything,_ ” she repeats to herself like a mantra.  


“Alright, I’m going to bring the requisite potions,” Healer Weiss gets up from the chair and goes to the door.  


“Wait!” The girl calls for her suddenly. “I remember I had a locket around my neck. Where is it now?”  


“There was no locket,” the witch shakes her head. “Only a deep scratch on your neck, like somebody tore off a chain from it. I have your wand though, but I’ll return it, when we’ll take off the bandages,” she leaves the ward with these words, and Hermione lays down, cozily adjusting her buzzing head, and finally closes her eyes.  


“ _Well, drat it all. To sleep and not to think about anything!_ ”  



	5. Chapter 5

Hermione is pensively moving her finger on the glass, looking at muggles, hurrying on their ways. They don’t even suspect that a whole world, living by its own laws, is under their very noses. The world they once pushed away. The world that now rejects them as primitive natives with whom one can set some kind of business relations or even a military alliance, but the idea of a true equality isn’t even considered. “ _In fact, we all stick our noses up the air, not only pure-bloods. We’re proud of how expertly we’re covering the existence of our world from those who’re not worthy to see its marvels. Wasn’t I feeling like I’m the chosen one, like I’m special, when I got my Hogwarts letter? Like I’m enormously better than my former friends-muggles? If you translate my childish enthusiasm to adult language, that’s exactly what I was feeling then: that I am now a part of elite, that I’ve got the chance to adjoin the real civilization, while the muggle primitive technologies will never, not even in the farthest future, reach the potential that any first year has. For example, if I was standing there, on the sidewalk, now, I’d conjure warming charms for myself, unlike all those poor fellows, shivering under their spring raincoats. And the fact that they’re caught unaware by unexpected whims of the weather makes me feel superior despite myself. So, what should we expect from the pure-blood wizards who, since the day they’re born, acquaint themselves with only one aspect of the muggle world: its weakness? Weakness makes some people want to lend their shoulder, to back up, to protect. Some people use it to their own advantage. And others despise and hate it. I’m afraid of weakness. Weakness comes alongside sneakiness, because the weak choose the simplest ways, and the simplest ways lead to betrayal too often. So, I’m going to be strong. Very strong. I will expect help or protection from nobody. So that no one wants to use me. So that there’s nothing I can be despised for. So that I don’t have to betray anyone. I’m alone now amidst this damn war, and I will survive again. I just have to hold on and be strong. When Healer Bržichaček asked me what I’m thinking about, he didn’t want to hear that, right?_ ”  


“Snow in the middle of May is rarely seen,” the girl finally answers, turning back to a short plump wizard, who writes down her answer with the most serious expression and directs his wand at her once again.  


“Why do you refuse to get treatment at my ward?”  


“ _Is he really that naïve? He actually doesn’t notice the breach in his own method?_ ”  


Bržichaček’s spell is used in the Auror Office for interrogation of witnesses, when there’s no justification to apply Veritaserum. Hermione got the top mark for her essay on the method of free associations at the Academy. And then she was summoned to the Ministry and had to sign the non-disclosure agreement regarding the way to bypass this spell. But the girl fairly decides that to disclose and to use it herself are completely different things, besides, on a formal level, her signature **will only appear** on the agreement in twenty-seven years and five months. So, she messes around with the Healer safely, guarding herself with a feeblish mental shield, which will warn her if Bržichaček tries to use Legilimency. Instead of dashing out a stream of words at the other person, which the spell forces you to do, Hermione chooses the most innocent and non-committal sentences out of this stream, and a simple distracting charm lets her make the Healer miss the pauses in the conversation.  


Bržichaček is trying to lure her away to his ward since the day her bandages were taken off. At first, Hermione was sure that he suspects she’s faking her amnesia, and that the Healer Weiss’s decision to put her into remedial sleep again was the only thing that saved her from rougher methods of interrogation. But now, when the burn marks almost disappeared, and there’s no more reasons to stay at the hospital, it is clear that, in fact, Bržichaček simply is in desperate need of a laboratory rat and thinks that the girl fits for his research perfectly. At the beginning of his career, the Healer was specializing in the cures for consequences of improper work with memory: poorly applied _Obliviate_ , side effects of _Imperio_ and so on. But then he got interested in non-magical memory damage and methods of extracting the memories, which are non-significant to patient. Later, an entire sphere of mental magic will be created basing on his works, and the free association method will be actively used by Aurors, when they need to pry out the information the witnesses are hiding accidentally, since they don’t see its importance. But Bržichaček massively miscalculated in choosing Hermione as a subject: she bluntly refuses any help in ‘restoring’ her memory, and, moreover, knows exactly how to resist the urge to voice every thought that crosses her mind.  


“I don’t want to move to the Fourth Floor.”  


“ _I went up there once and barely handled the panic attack. Somehow, it was especially hard to look at the portraits. In the end, I’ve taken away all the patients… except for Goyle. But the magical portraits died in flames. I was trying so hard not to pay attention to them, while I was running back and forth the corridor, but now I can’t get rid of the feeling that they know everything. They know that I will leave them hanging on the walls which will be on fire already. And the smell of burning, it will definitely hunt me every time I visit the ward, no matter if it’s before or after the fire. Heaven knows when I’ll get to the ‘after fire’, though. And it’s already time to start working on it._ ”  


“I’ve spent too much time at the hospital as it is.”  


“I don’t understand why you’re refusing the help. What are you going to do, having neither home, nor family or friends? Where will you go?” Bržichaček is so annoyed that he even forgets to charm her again. Or, perhaps, he thinks that’s enough tests for today?  


“ _I’m lucky if it is so. It’s not his fault, of course, but his insistence makes me terribly angry. There’s only one person, whom I will trust with my secret and whose help I’ll accept. And it’s time to turn to him._ ”  


“I’ll figure it out,” Hermione mechanically tosses her head, as if throwing back long locks, and feels strange once again. She’s been letting her hair grow since she was five, and now she has a feeling like her arm or leg was amputated, no less. “I think the walk through the Diagon Alley might help me. I remember the Diagon Alley. Maybe someone there remembers me?”  


The Healer sighs heavily. The task to prove himself more stubborn than this impossible patient turns out to be too hard for him. He’s not used to such tenacious resistance. Usually the patients with memory loss are disoriented and obedient. At the very least, they fall into panic or, alternatively, apathy. But the calm determination of Miss N. breaks his entire scheme. Bržichaček encountered the cases, when patients don’t want to remember some traumatizing experience, but the girl doesn’t fit into this category. Clearly, something bad happened to her, but it’s not fear that is blocking her memory and forces her to shut off and close her mind. At the same time, she obviously isn’t a criminal. Bržichaček works closely with the Auror Office, promoting his original method, so he checked the suspicious patient through his sources in the first place. All the requests gave the negative result: there’s no wanted witch, matching her age and appearance. And his whole vast experience is telling him, “ _Back down! This nut is too tough to crack._ ”  


“If that’s the case, I’m leaving you in Healer Weiss’s hands,” he finally grumbles with displeasure. “She said she’ll keep you here for one more week to run the last tests and will be able to dismiss you next Monday. If you change your mind suddenly, you know where to find me.”  


“Thank you, sir,” the girl nods calmly, but he notices relief and a light shadow of true gratitude in her eyes. Gratitude for finally being left alone.  


Bržichaček snorts to himself in annoyance, gathers his paperwork and leaves. Hermione lifts off all protective barriers and sinks to her bed limply. Resisting the mental magic specialist exhausts her to the very core. If the Healer tried to force his way through her blockings, it would cost him less than two minutes. “ _Good thing he didn’t suspect anything._ ” The girl, who is used to connect Mateusz Bržichaček’s name with Aurors’ aggressive methods of work, never figured out that she owes the lack of rough pressure to the Healers’ ethical code, and not to the elderly wizard’s naivete.  


***  


Amanda Weiss is also very upset with her patient’s stubbornness. She was putting high hopes on Mateusz’s new methods and believed to the utmost that the girl stays and tries to recover her memory. The Healer is even ready to provide her with the ward on her own floor for the time of treatment, since the patient so fiercely refuses to move to the Fourth Floor. But Miss N. firmly stated that she is intending to leave the hospital any time soon. Amanda’s heart is breaking with sympathy for the poor girl, but there are no objective reasons to keep her for one more month. The burn marks have disappeared, weakened during the remedial sleep muscles gained back their tonus, and, except for minor exhaustion, the girl is in normal physical shape. The Healer is sure that Miss N. was actively practicing sports in her previous life: usually, the recovery after a couple months of immobility takes twice as much time as it did in this case. Or maybe the reason behind it is the girl’s phenomenal stubbornness which makes her train with almost frightening obsession. Having once made the decision that it’s time for her to be dismissed, Miss N. was making everything in her power not to stay at the hospital for a single extra day.  


“There, now you can admire yourself,” she says to her patient, guiding her to a conjured mirror. Usually there are no mirrors at the wards, in order to not stress out those patients, who are only at the first stages of recovery.  


Hermione nervously smooths down her slightly regrown hair and finally raises her eyes to the reflection. The Healer takes a couple steps back, letting the girl peacefully examine her new self.  


“ _Looks like I’ve grown a few inches during my illness,_ ” is Hermione’s first thought. “ _And definitely lost more weight. What a nightmare,_ ” she sadly fixes the robes, provided by the hospital, on her chest, trying to accentuate at least somehow the presence of breasts, which even she now doubts. She remembers instantly the joke that Ron and Harry annoyed half of female trainees of the Academy with: ‘If you have breasts, why are you not wearing it?’ The memory brings a warm wave of peace and safety, as if firm friendly palms laid on her shoulders. The bitterness immediately adds itself to the warming feeling: the Weasley twins drove Hogwarts’ girls mad with that same joke. “ _Could George ever be able to joke again without waiting for Fred’s voice to catch up his sentence? Will Harry and Ron stop fooling around as if they’re trying to substitute the irreplaceable and inseparable twins? They may deny it for as long as they wish, but they’re acting by the textbook, showing clear symptoms of post-war stress…_ ”  


Smiling bitterly at the thought that she’s diagnosing friends, who aren’t even born yet, and all of whose losses are yet ahead, Hermione musters herself and raises her head to see her face. “ _I look like Keira Knightley,_ ” she thinks absently. She doesn’t know yet if the comparison makes her sad or no. Of course, she likes Knightley, but… “ _But these sharply defined cheekbones, the pointed chin, they can’t be mine._ ” The girl carefully touches her cheek, as if trying to make sure that her soft facial contours were actually covering these aggressive, rough lines which plainly show through her strained skin now. “ _Well, looks like a home bookish girl ultimately turned into a Valkyrie. If I lose even more weight, my head could be used to teach the scaffold of the skull. Or, at least, of the jawbones. Since when are my eyes so light-colored?_ ”  


The eyes’ mystery is solved, as soon as Hermione looks closer at her hair. Previously, it was a couple of shades lighter than eyes which Ron, a huge muggle sweets’ fan, compared to ‘chocolate covered cherries’. Nothing cherry-chocolatey is in them now. Her eyes, in fact, turn out to be light-brown, at least by contrast with dark brows, eyelashes and hair.  


“Is something wrong, my dear?” Healer Weiss asks concerned, anxiously observing her patient’s gloomy grimaces. She is very proud of her work and a little disappointed by the girl’s reaction.  


“I barely recognize myself,” answers Hermione. “My hair… It was much lighter. And it was curly!”  


To be honest, her hair curled much less for the last couple of years, comparing to how it did before she was sixteen. But these changes were gradual. Besides, after a year, spent hunting Horcruxes, she got used to braid her unruly hair. Now, looking at dark-brown strands, sticking out in all directions, Hermione would give anything for her former curliness which caused her so much grief once upon a time.  


“It often happens,” the Healer tries to comfort her. “The color can change even after a regular cut, and the hair stops or, on the contrary, starts to curl. Don’t get upset. Once it grows some more, you’ll have a nice haircut. Sure, it’s not the most appropriate hairdo for a young atrractive witch…”  


“ _Instead, it’s perfect for a future Auror,_ ” the young attractive witch thinks gloomily, remembering that all the girls in the last year at the Academy wear short haircuts. One even has a stylish buzzcut. “ _And I have something in between – not a buzzcut, not yet a haircut. Like Harry’s head disaster, but shorter. Maybe I should shave it completely? Maybe I’m the one destined to be the founder of the punk?_ ” Snorting at the last thought, the girl decides to stop caring about radical changes in her appearance. “ _In the end, it will serve me well. At least no one in the future will think that curly and round-faced Hermione Granger is the same person as the lean and short-haired… Yes, by the way, it’s time to think of something more appropriate than Miss N._ ”  



	6. Chapter 6

Not wanting for Healer Weiss, who sees her to the fireplace, to hear where she is actually going, Hermione first heads to the Leaky Cauldron. Fifteen sickles, which the Healer literally forced in the resistant girl’s hands, are jingling in her pocket, so she decides to sit at the bar until the evening and arrive at Hogwarts in the dark, in order to not draw too much attention. After she refreshes herself with a piece of meat pie and two cups of strong sweet tea, there’s only enough money to buy a pinch of Floo Powder. Having waited until a piece of sky behind the window colors in sunset shades, Hermione steps into the fireplace and names the direction, throwing Floo Powder under her feet. When the green smoke clears away, and the dumbfound girl gets up from the floor, a young barman, cleaning serenely the same old muddy glass, asks her in a mix of sympathy and sneer. “Excuse me, did you say ‘Hogsmeade, the Three Broomsticks Inn’?”  


“Yes, that is exactly what I said,” Hermione answers grumpily. “If you fireplace is broken, you should warn people in advance!”  


“Oh no, the fireplace is fine,” the sneer in the guy’s eyes outweighs the sympathy. “It’s just that for the last couple of years the Floo Powder access to Hogsmeade exists only from the Ministry, or, under a special authorization for the villagers, or, under a previous agreement for the Hogwarts’ students family members. Are you a family member?”  


“No, I’m a villager!” Hermione grumbles, not knowing why she’s angry with the guy. Most likely, because he’s getting a huge pleasure in watching her face stretch.  


As if guessing the thread of her thoughts, the barman adds with an innocent smile. “And the Anti-Disapparition barrier around Hogsmeade was installed two years ago. On the house!” With the last sentence he pushes a shot of Firewhisky to her.  


Glancing furiously at the guy, Hermione pointedly pushes the glass away and climbs on the bar stool with a heavy sigh.  


“What should I do now?” she asks pathetically.  


The barman shrugs, almost knocking a tall, extravagantly sheathed bottle from the counter.  


“You can wait until the next Hogwarts Express. The nearest one is on Thursday morning, if I’m not mistaken.”  


The girl shakes her head in desperation.  


“Well, if you don’t value your life much, you can also take the Knight Bus.”  


Hermione’s face brightens instantly, but then she frowns again.  


“I don’t have eleven sickles,” she confesses, cursing herself for refusing to take a galleon from Weiss. “ _I’m still going to repay her, after all. I could have…_ ”  


“Why eleven?” the barman gets wide-eyed. “The ride on the Knight Bus costs seven sickles, nine, if you want a cup of hot chocolate, and for ten you get a pillow and a blanket.”  


“ _Damn inflation,_ ” Hermione gloomily comments the information to herself and adds aloud in annoyance. “I don’t even have seven. I’ve spent the last five sickles on your stupid useless Powder!”  


“Hey!” The guy reaches out warningly, as if he’s going to defend his pub’s honor in a fist fight. “We have the best quality Powder! And it’s not my fault you come out of nowhere and don’t know how to get… erm… home,” he flashes a mocking grin again. “But maybe I could…”  


Hermione raises her head in hope and puts on one of those pleading expressions that Ron and Harry used during their school years to persuade her to look through their essays or let them copy the lab results. Speaking properly, the same story continues at the Academy, so she has a very vast copying material. She only hopes that her new face manages to embody a complete desperation she’s feeling now.  


“Yes, please! If you could lend me some money for the ticket… I’ll certainly pay you back!”  


The guy looks thoughtful, even dreamy. “How about a kiss for every twenty knuts? We can even round off in your favor…  


The next second a wand is pointing at his chin.  


“Go on,” Hermione bends over the counter and hisses right into his ear. “So, I owe you what, ten kisses, right?”  


“Err, I was only kidding, Miss,” he forces out, trying to draw back. “I’m sorry.”  


“I’ve thought so,” she smiles sweetly, putting the previous pleading face on. “So, could you, …?”  


“…Tom,” the guy answers, swallowing nervously.  


“Tom?” She repeats incredulously. “Shouldn’t you be a little… older?”  


“T-t-that’s my uncle,” Tom explains, still staring at the wand the girl doesn’t even consider taking away. “I’m just helping him out here after studies.”  


“And where do you study, Tom?” Hermione asks in a friendly way, getting a real pleasure at the sight of the nervous guy.  


“The Auror Academy under the Ministry, Miss…”  


“… Knightley.”  


Tom snorts suddenly. “Like the Bus, or what?”  


“Like the bus?” The girl raises one brow perplexed. “Oh, right… No, not like the Bus. So, Tom, could you lend me seven sickles which I’ll repay you as soon as possible?”  


“Sure, Miss,” Tom nods hastily and counts out seven silver coins which she masterly scoops from the counter.  


“Good luck in your studies, Tom,” the girl nods formally, heading towards the pub’s door. “Thank you very much, you really helped me out.”  


“You’re welcome, Miss,” the guy blushes. “Have a safe journey.”  


The girl slips out of the pub with a light chuckle. Next minute there’s a terrible screech of the brakes. A purple side of a huge bus shields the window for a moment, there’s the conductor’s creaky voice saying something, and then the Knight Bus roars like a wounded dragon, and everything’s quiet again. Tom goes out to the empty street, leans to the doorframe and pensively looks up to the sky from which the first roll of a remote thunder comes.  


“I hope you’ll get nicely soaked, Miss Knightley,” he vindictively wishes to the darkness and firmly closes the Leaky Cauldron’s door, coming back inside.  


***  


“ _I should have taken nine sickles from this jerk,_ ” Hermione thinks, enviously inhaling a wonderful smell of hot chocolate which spreads around the bus’s half-dark interior. However, a gray-haired wizard, holding a precious hot cup in his hand, manages to sip from it only during rare stops. The Knight Bus already turned to a country road, and, according to the girl’s estimations, Dumbledore will offer her a cup of tea in half-an-hour or so. Or maybe he’ll even treat her with something more nourishing than lemon drops. “ _I hope he’s not asleep yet. I was planning to get to Hogwarts much earlier._ ” She gazes out the window, trying to get her geographical and temporal bearings at the same time. At this very moment the raindrops start dabbling the glass.  


“So, Ernie, you didn’t outrun the storm, eh?” The elderly conductor with a long moustache mocks his partner. The driver just glances at him scornfully and jerks the wheel sharply to avoid the collision with the spruce, growing by the road.  


Hermione simply rolls over her chair (she’s almost got used to it by now), but the second passenger isn’t as lucky: this time, he lets go of his hot chocolate, and it spills on his unmade bed in a picturesque stain. Unable to hold her evil grin, the girl climbs back to her chair and clings to the window once more. Even in the darkness she’s able to recognize the Hogsmeade’s surroundings: a light strip of the lake among the trees, the familiar set of the hills… Her heart begins to pound madly: the only place she could call home in present circumstances (and at present time) is so close now. So many sharp feelings are inextricably linked to it. Harry and Ron have been to Hogwarts multiple times since the war has ended: visiting Ginny, Luna, Hagrid, McGonagall and other teachers, or simply roaming around Hogsmeade and drinking butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. But Hermione never managed to force herself to come back to her former school. After the graduation she’s been inventing all kinds of reasons to justify her non-involvement in yet another trip her friends took. She hungrily soaked up their impressions, asked about people they know, about changes which happened at the castle after the war, but didn’t allow herself a single thought of going with them some day. “ _I didn’t need it, unlike them,_ ” she remembers her main argument. “ _They’re the ones with the post-war syndrome!_ ” But, at the same time, who would’ve thought that coming back will rouse such breathtaking feeling in her chest…  


The Knight Bus is rolling down the Hogsmeade’s sleeping street. She doesn’t have much time to choose a name for herself. Hermione already came to terms with her made up surname, despite the fact that every wizard she meets will, most likely, associate it with the bus. It’s only logical. “ _In the end, who am I if not a witch in emergency situation? The name should be chosen so that I get used to respond to it quickly. Heaven knows, how soon Dumbledore will find the way to send me back. And I don’t need to raise any suspicions._ ” The bus sharply brakes right at the moment an ideal version of a name crosses her mind, and the girl is flipped from her seat yet again.  


The conductor loudly announces. “Hogwarts!”  


Hermione is so distracted that the arrival surprises her, and she hastily jumps out of the bus, without even thinking to put waterproof charms on herself. And when she finally remembers about them, it’s already too late. The Knight Bus disappears from the view, splashing her with mud from under its wheel, and the cold rain pelts from above. Its intensity reminds her of a shower. “ _That one is for your arrogance and false pride, darling,_ ” her inner voice comments acidly. “ _Do you remember thinking that muggles under the snow are pathetic and helpless? And how are you better than them now?_ ” Clenching her teeth, she passes through the gates and heads towards the castle, slipping on wet paving stones of the pathway. In order to not listen to mocking retorts anymore, Hermione decides to practice the usage of her new name on her way. “Hello, my name is Jean Knightley. Yeah-yeah, like the Bus, that’s right… Nice to meet you, I’m Jean.”  


Her mom gave her that name. She always was a rational one in their family, balancing her eccentric dreamer-father, who, not knowing then about his daughter’s extraordinary gifts, graced her with a weird name which was a matter of mockery throughout her entire school life (the one before Hogwarts). Mom always joked that the day he solemnly announced that he names his newborn daughter Hermione, she wanted to strip him of his parenting rights. Banter aside, the girl can’t think of the time mom addressed her using her first name. It’s always Jean only. And she’s used to respond to both names. She never thought about it before, but now it feels like this innocent game – daddy’s Hermione, mommy’s Jean – somehow split their family into two camps with turntail-daughter in the middle. Yes, of course, her parents **clearly** love each other. Moreover, they’re still **in love** with each other, and they’re not hiding it. But Hermione Jean is always between them, like a pulling rope. The three of them are some kind of unstable compounding, always trying to dissociate into a two and an odd one. To please her dad, Hermione spent hours telling him about Hogwarts castle’s mysteries, ghosts, charms, potions and quidditch, centaurs, unicorns and thousands of different marvels she’s seen in the magical world. But mom never participated in these conversations. To please her mom, Jean was willingly planning to study at Oxford, marry a nice intelligent guy at a church decorated with flowers, buy a cozy suburban house, practice law (or medicine), or run a little bookstore, at the very worst. Her dad always rolled his eyes at it and then stealthily winked at his daughter. “ _It's you whom I've been lying to, mommy. Because, in the end, I belong to **this** world, even if its adventures are frightening sometimes. But I wouldn’t be myself without them. Harry recently dog the term ‘adrenaline junkie’ out of somewhere, like some kind of revenge for the ‘post-war syndrome’. It’s looks very much like I really am an adrenaline junkie. Otherwise why the Merlin have I entered the Academy instead of going to Oxford?_”  


With another flash of lightning, appearing somewhere very close to the castle, Jean steps on the resonant flagstones of the Entrance Hall, carefully holding back heavy door leaves. The girl crosses the hall, leaving wet traces behind her, and steps on the central staircase. She only passes a couple of steps, when she hears a suspicious voice behind her back. “Where do you think you’re going, boy?”  


Turning around in a leap, the girl flies over the banister and lands on the floor, taking her wand out of the case. “ _Damn those stupid reflexes,_ ” she swears to herself, finding nothing threatening behind her back. The student, who called her, isn’t even trying to get his wand out. He’s simply standing in the middle of the hall, with arms crossed at his chest. The wave of effortless self-confidence and lazy arrogance tells her exactly with whom the fate knocks her together this evening. “ _This very unlucky evening,_ ” she corrects herself, flashing her squinted eyes over the teenager’s form. “ _Yes, just as I thought: blond hair, Slytherin tie, prefect’s badge. It’s like I’m already back in my time. Or almost back. Are Malfoys some kind of my own personal punishment?_ ” She slowly straightens up and stares challengingly at the cold gray eyes, wishing with all her heart that their owner sinks back into his dungeons, preferably for good.  



	7. Chapter 7

Lucius genuinely appreciates his position as a prefect. He likes the feeling of power over other students, naturally, although it’s been a long time since he grew out of faculty points’ games when he got the precious badge. The main advantage of his position lies, however, in something else. Lucius likes to wander around the castle after curfew, feeling like he’s the owner and guardian of this entire sleeping giant which almost buzzes with magic flows. Sometimes he even feels like his mind penetrates into the castle’s, merges with it, like Hogwarts is a living being, whose thoughts can be read if wished. Lucius likes to chat with portraits, likes their respectful, special treatment, likes how he can find his way around the castle better than some of his professors and knows by heart the ‘schedule’ of moving stairs. He likes how the house-elves, for some reason, see fit to coordinate the students’ menu with him… And he also likes to stand behind the ornately shaped window of the Clock Tower, imagining himself getting ready to counter an attack on the castle. If his father knew about this game, he would be terribly disappointed in his seventeen-year old heir, so Lucius can only let his imagination to play a little, when everybody in the castle is asleep, and there are no witnesses to his childish behavior.  


Tonight’s perfect for military games: the darkness, curling at the foot of the castle’s hill, is cut over and over again with many-branched lightnings. They flash out baroque shapes of dark bushes and trees which one could easily take for sneaking up enemies. That’s why the young man thinks the human silhouette, walking from the gates towards the main entrance, is a figment of his mind. In fact, if one of the professors is waiting for guests at this time and in this weather, it wouldn’t be difficult for Headmaster to open the fireplace. But the man is walking too calmly for an intruder, as if he’s completely sure of his rights. When another lightning illuminates the mysterious guest so brightly that there are no more doubts in his realness, Lucius hurries downstairs to meet him there. Having descended from the tower, he stands, watching the covered with mud wizard cross the Entrance Hall. Judging by his small stature and untidy short haircut, the strands of which stick every which way even when wet, he is a teenager, but Lucius could swear he’s never seen him before. And he has a very good visual memory and extensive connections around magical Britain. When the visitor starts to climb the stairs in the same annoying confidence, as if he knows exactly where he’s going, Lucius can’t stand it and calls him. “Where do you think you’re going, boy?”  


The stranger’s reaction is completely unexpected: he jumps over the banister and covers in staircase’s shades, pointing his wand at Lucius, who stops dead in the middle of the Hall, as if being frozen, and has absolutely no idea what to do. “ _It’s not as fun when you’re **actually** attacked, is it, Luci? Come on now, defend the castle from an unknown psychopath. You’ve rehearsed it so many times…_”  


The guy straightens up and lowers his wand-holding hand, although waves of tension, emanating from him, feel even stronger now. Then his pale face with sharp features grimace in disdain and annoyance. “ _Who does he think he is, looking at me like that?!_ ” Lucius gets actually irritated now. Taking a couple more steps towards the guy, he asks coolly. “Who are you, and where are you heading?”  


The stranger’s eyes flash with golden sparkles, like the ones of an irritated cat, and he also steps in Lucius’ direction, getting to the lit space of the stairwell. “ _A girl?!_ ” Lucius shakes his head incredulous.  


“Why do I have to report to you?” the witch asks him cheekily, measuring him with another strange look, in which he distinctively sees a feeling that is very far from respect.  


“Cause I’m a prefect, perhaps?” Lucius suggests nonchalantly. “And I have the right to ask about the purpose for which strangers come to the school after curfew, leaving puddles of mud on the floor, by the way,” with these words he takes out his wand and clears the dirty footprints from the floor and mud from her clothes in two elegant movements.  


“Oh, that’s a very interesting question,” she reacts coolly, but blushes a little in embarrassment or anger, Lucius can’t tell. “Maybe you’ve been informed that the prefect’s position implies obligations of sorts, as well as rights? For example, could you guide me to the Headmaster’s office, since we’ve so luckily met each other?”  


Without waiting for Lucius to come out of paralysis, caused by her sass, the girl shrugs, as if saying ‘No? Okay then’, and confidently heads to the stairs.  


“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth, catching up with her. “May Professor Dumbledore deal with you himself.”  


They silently climb the marble stairs. Lucius is walking a few steps forward. Having passed the first landing, he glances at the House point hourglasses, proudly noticing that Slytherin still is far ahead of other Houses, while the term is almost over. Of course, exams start soon, but it’s impossible to lose any significant number of points during this period: students simply don’t have enough time for fooleries, and professors don’t have much strength to closely observe them. “ _However, seventh year Nott managed to get caught on unauthorized walk to Hogsmeade right during the N.E.W.T.s last year. He was even audacious enough to rant how everyone has their own ways to de-stress (' **... some scream at the library’s roof in duo with Kettleburn’s kneazle, while others drink in a civilized manner…** '), reeking of alcohol right in McGonagall’s pale with fury face. Nott was lucky that he’s passed Transfiguration at that point._”  


Lucius catches himself smiling uncontrollably, like he does every time he remembers it, even though they’ve lost to Ravenclaw thanks to Nott’s escapade. He hastily goes back to his previous expression of displeasure and boredom. But one quick glance allows him to make sure that the stranger barely notices him, since she’s absorbed in an even greater thoughtfulness than he just was. She breathes steadily and lightly, as if the climb on the stairs doesn’t require any efforts. Her pale hand doesn’t touch the banister to rely on it, but to simply stroke the stone, polished with thousands of palms. Lucius dislikes the gesture very much. It is too… possessory, yes. As if this random guest has the right to greet his castle as an old friend. It’s **his** way to greet the school when he comes back after holidays.  


“This way,” he turns to the corridor which ends with the door to the Headmaster’s office, guarded by the Gargoyle.  


The girl suddenly slows down, her face has a strange expression of sadness? Fear? Hope? She takes another couple of steps and stops completely, turning her face to a tall lancet window looking at the lake. For a short moment she leans her forehead to the glass, wrapping arms around her body, as if she’s bracing herself. The lightning flushes outside, highlighting her profile, and the girl staggers back, as if snapping out of deep trans.  


“Would you like to explore some other attractions, Miss, or is the tour around the castle considered done?” Lucius enquires, trying to mask his confusion with sneer. He’s not entirely sure if the stranger should be let in the Dumbledore’s office. What if she’s dangerous? “ _In that case, Headmaster has much more chances to wrest her down than I do, hasn’t he?_ ”  


“I’d like to explore Headmaster’s office, if there aren’t too many tourists there at this time of the day,” the witch answers in the same tone, but she sounds a little mechanically, there’s no ardor this time. It seems that her thoughts are already occupied by something else, and she barely notices her guide.  


“Marzipan fruits,” Lucius finally says the password.  


The half-asleep Gargoyle glances at them, allowing them to the stairway. Lucius lets the girl go ahead and follows her, clutching his wand tightly on the watch for trouble. Finding herself in front of the oak door, the stranger takes a deep breath, as if getting ready to jump into the water, and knocks. But when, before long, the invitation to come in sounds from behind the door, she looks petrified, clutching her hands convulsively and biting her lower lip. Lingering for a second, Lucius pushes her out of the way with his shoulder and steps inside. Dumbledore is sitting behind his desk, going through some papers.  


“To what do I owe, Mr. Malfoy?” he asks without interrupting his work.  


“There’s a guest at the castle, sir. She said she wants to talk to you,” Lucius turns back to the door.  


“Let her in, then,” Dumbledore orders and finally raises his head, flashing his glasses.  


The girl crosses the doorstep to the office and stares at Headmaster as if he’s Santa Claus, or as if she’s going to propose him. For half a minute the room is silent and motionless, then Dumbledore sighs heavily and puts away his paperwork, clearing the desk.  


“Miss, I’m sure you won’t refuse some tea? And let me…,” he waves his hand, pointing a drying spell Lucius didn’t take care of when cleaning her clothes at her. “Sit closer to the fire.”  


“Thank you, sir,” she finally forces out and obediently sits in the chair by the fireplace Dumbledore indicated.  


“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy, I think it’s time for you to come back to your dormitory, or you’ll oversleep breakfast tomorrow. Good night!”  


“Good night, sir,” Lucius answers in an even voice, boiling with fury inside. He’s never been kicked out from anywhere so blatantly. And the little jack-sauce didn’t even bother to thank him for his help! “Miss…” He nods curtly to the girl, who doesn’t even turn around, either lost in her thoughts, or mesmerized by the flames, and goes out the door.  


***  


The girl accepts a cup of tea from the Headmaster’s hands and takes a big gulp in delight. She’s finally warm and comfortable. Except there’s a thrill that the forthcoming conversation causes her. And an overwhelming desire to embrace Dumbledore, drowning in tears, and tell him everything they’ve been through since he died. Tell him how horrible the things turned out to be, and how hard it still is to cope with consequences. And the way his gentle wise eyes look at her in compassion… She didn’t realize it’s going to be so hard.  


“So, Miss, how can I help you?” Headmaster pulls another chair closer to the fire and sits comfortably in it, showing his willingness to hear out the guest in every way.  


“My name’s Jean. Jean Knightley,” she begins finally. “Sir, have you heard anything about Time-Turners?”  


Dumbledore shakes his head, but his eyes flash with mischievous curiosity.  


“I’m from the future. Quite remote one, in fact,” Jean takes another sip, composing her thoughts. Headmaster keeps observantly quiet.  


“I was using a device, which isn’t invented yet. It allows people to come back to specific time, hence… Well, it doesn’t matter. I obtained the Time-Turner so I could attend extra classes. When doing so, I signed the contract with the Ministry which binds me to follow certain rules. Interference in time should be minimal, so I kind of have no right to mention that I’m using a Time-Turner, let alone share the information received in the future with anybody.”  


She stops to recover her breath and looks at Dumbledore apologetically, waiting for his reaction. Headmaster thoughtfully nods and leans back in his chair, slowly twisting his fingers.  


“And still you’re here and you’re telling me things you have no right to disclose?” He asks softly.  


Jean lasts out through his scrutiny and continues. “Because I’m in desperate need of help, sir. The rules cover the usual mode of the Time-Turner’s use, and they’re created for the time-traveler not to make irreparable alterations in the past. But I ended up too far in the past due to an accident, the Time-Turner is lost (besides, it doesn’t go in reverse), and now I have to find the way to go back to my time. If there are any means to do so, they must be strictly classified, since even in my present time travels aren’t common. No one will share the results of secret researches with me, I have no home, my parents didn’t even meet each other yet, I have no documents or means of living…”  


She goes silent in embarrassment, but Dumbledore smiles encouragingly and holds out a tray of chocolate cookies to her.  


“So that’s why you came to me,” he states an obvious fact.  


“Because I know you, sir. Because you’ve always said that help is always given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it. Because you have enough authority and the connections at the Ministry to get answers to questions I can’t ask there. Because you’re a wise enough wizard to…”  


“I get it, to not make irreparable alterations in the past,” he comes to the absolutely embarrassed girl’s rescue. “Well, miss Knightley, your compliments have melted my old heart, and I’m ready to give you help and protection.”  


“Thank you, sir! I’ll do my best so you won’t regret it! I could also be of some help…”  


Dumbledore gently smiles in his beard and stands up.  


“I have no doubt in that. As for now, I suppose, you should go to sleep,” he scoops a handful of Floo Powder from a little pot on the fireplace and throws it in the fire, shouting. “Hospital Wing!”  


The nurse’s disheveled head appears in the green flames in a few minutes. “Professor Dumbledore! Did something happen?”  


“Everything’s alright, Poppy. Are you still awake?”  


“Yes, I’ve just finished with Timson’s wounds. You’ve heard what happened today at the Care of Magical Creatures class, right?”  


Headmaster nods.  


“Poppy, what is the state of the guest suite now? Can we accommodate our guest there?”  


The nurse puts her head out of the fireplace in curiosity, and Jean is amazed of how young she is. “ _She looks like she’s my age now, think of it!_ ”  


“Of course, we can. The suite is absolutely fine. I’ll make the bed now…” And Poppy disappears.  


Dumbledore holds the little pot with Floo Powder out to the girl.  


“Good night, Miss Knightley. I’ll invite you to my office tomorrow, so we could discuss everything in more details.”  


Jean nods.  


“Good night, sir! Thank you so much,” she steps into the fireplace with these words and goes to Madam Pomfrey’s office, thinking in passing that she clearly isn’t Madam yet, and therefore isn’t Pomfrey as well.  


***  


The suite at the Hospital Wing is meant, mainly, for parents of injured students, if their presence at the school is required. There are other guest suites in the castle, but the members of the Wizarding Examinations Authority, invited for O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, will take up their residence there any day now. Jean is very content both with the suite and with its remote location. It consists of two rooms: a little bedroom with the door, leading to a bathroom, and a drawing room with two exits (to the dead-end corridor of the Hospital Wing and to a small stone terrace through which one can reach the greenhouses). The terrace is enlaced with different voluble plants, covering it from prying eyes, and Jean even supposes that distracting charms are conjured at the guest suite. Otherwise, how is it possible that she’s been passing this place a couple times a week for six years of her studies, but never noticed anything? The girl is more than OK with the privacy of the suite, since the school is still full of students, and she doesn’t want at all to explain her presence at the castle. Running into Malfoy is enough.  


Jean sleeps her fill and wakes up in a lovely cheerful mood. She spends all morning at the terrace doing some exercises that are used on the Academy’s practices. Then thoughtful Poppy sends her breakfast with a house-elf. His name is Misie, and he is working at the Hospital Wing, being responsible for the wards’ cleanness and patients’ nutrition. After breakfast, Jean sunbathes for some time, being happy that her unnaturally white after burns skin gets gradually tanned. Half an hour later the girl understands that she’s slowly going mad. The day’s only nearing noon, and she’s already dying with boredom. There are no books or writing utensils in the drawing room, nothing to occupy her mind. The idea to visit Poppy seems tempting, but Jean hesitates. Some first year was taken to the nurse with a nosebleed, and the girl, having stood at the door for a while, tiptoes back to her place. “ _How am I going to live through this month until the students go home?_ ” She’s asking herself in desperation. “ _Will Dumbledore let me out then? Perhaps it was wiser to stay at St. Mungo’s?_ ” She tries to fall asleep with this depressive thought, but only keeps tossing and turning until the lunch time which Poppy, who’s finally free, decides to spend with her.  


The nurse turns out to be twenty-three years old, and her first year of working at Hogwarts is now almost over. Poppy is very glad to finally find someone of her age and with the same interests to talk to. Even though Jean doesn’t confess that she’s also studying to become a nurse, she willingly discusses medical issues, so both of them part ways happy with each other and the time they’ve spent together. Poppy even promises to bring something from the library for Jean. The girl asks Misie to bring her a quill and some parchment and starts making a list of books she’d like to read. When it’s done Jean catches herself thinking that even if Poppy delivers the entire Hogwarts library here, staying within four walls will drive her mad until the week ends. Her melancholy thoughts are interrupted by an unfamiliar house-elf who hands her over a note from Dumbledore, inviting her to his office. Jean rushes to Poppy, almost flipping out with joy, to use her fireplace.  


Headmaster paces around his office, stopping occasionally before Fawkes’s perch to stroke the bird’s delicate scarlet plumage. When the girl stumbles out of the fireplace, he sits at his desk and points at the chair across it. Jean sits, foreboding that she won’t hear anything comforting. And even though Divination never was her strong point, the situation’s prediction is correct now.  


“I’ve managed to find a person at the Ministry who answered my questions. But I doubt that you’ll like their answers,” Dumbledore gets straight to the point. “Currently, the very first model of the Time-Turner is at the testing stage, and recently the Department of Mysteries began the development of a more powerful device. Both of these models are only designed for travelling to the past. Decades may pass until the Time-Turner which could take you back to your time is created,” he gets up again and pats Jean’s shoulder encouragingly, passing her by. “There, there, don’t worry so much. You were ready for it, weren’t you?”  


The girl nods feebly, feeling her eyes well with tears. “Yes, sure, but I’ve been hoping… Maybe there’s some spell? A ritual? After all, the mode of functioning of these damned things is based on something!” She bends in her chair, not being able to withstand it, and covers her wet face in her palms.  


“Miss Knightley,” the Headmaster’s voice is full of compassion, but sounds firm enough for her to stop sniffling and begin listening again. “Miss Knightley, you should have been ready to learn that the invention of a Time-Turner which would work ‘clockwise’ is simply not possible… Maybe you’ll have to travel in time naturally, by simply living it through.”  


Having said that, Dumbledore disappears at the back of his office for a while, giving Jean the opportunity to finally collect herself and digest the news she received. “ _There’s not enough time until 1999 to digest **that**. Oh Merlin, it’s twenty-eight years, what am I going to do?_”  


“Therefore,” Headmaster continues matter-of-factly, emerging in the office again, “I think that from this very moment you should simply start living. Do what you’re interested in doing, communicate with people…”  


He looks closely in her startled eyes, as if trying to pour in her a dose of confidence that there’s nothing terrible in her situation, that it’s still **her** life, and she has the right to live it like she wants, she doesn’t have to hide until the return to ‘her’ time. “ _This time **is** mine,_” she realizes suddenly. “ _Maybe, there won’t be any other, considering the approaching war._ ”  


As if sensing the change in her mood, Dumbledore speaks in a completely different, all-business tone.  


“So, what were you doing earlier? I mean, later,” he returns to his desk, sits down and raises his eyes, meeting her anxious gaze. His face instantly reflects comprehension. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. You shouldn’t tell me anything specific about your life, since it’s prohibited. I’m only concerned in the level and area of your education.”  


Jean frowns in concentration, trying to decide whether this information is undisclosable, and finally reaches the conclusion that extraordinary situation justifies some deviation from the rules. It’s Dumbledore, in the end, the person she called wise enough not to do something irreparable only yesterday.  


“I graduated from the magical school,” she finally confesses. “And now I’m continuing professional education in several areas at once: Wizarding Medicine, martial magic, tactics and various connected subjects. Basically, it’s only been six months since my graduation…”  


“So, you’ve passed your N.E.W.T.s, am I getting it right?”  


“Yeaah,” she answers tentatively. “But I did it without attending classes. Meaning I haven’t been attending classes during the last year. I’ve studied up by the books and…”  


She’s still embarrassed when she remembers her N.E.W.T.s. Of course, everyone whom the Ministry allowed to pass the exams studied for them in good faith. Moreover, they were all reviewing their butts off to distract themselves from losses, from the recent horror still provoking nightmares, from the castle’s demolished surroundings, from the thoughts that Death Eaters walk free somewhere… But the girl couldn’t not realize that the ‘war heroes’ would still pass, whatever nonsense they say. Partly thanks to the respect towards young veterans and their merits, but mostly because making them study for one more year would mean considering them children again. And it was impossible to consider those whose hands are covered with blood, even if shed for the sake of defense, children, to impose detentions on those whose eyes saw the death of friends and family, to take away points off those who went to death beside each other. Jean doesn’t blame the Ministry, let alone Hogwarts’ Professors, but after the N.E.W.T.s she had a feeling that she was robbed. Is it the reason she’s been exhausting herself, Harry and Ron with the endless hours at the library? Was she making revision schedules for the summer exams during **Christmas holidays** for this? Was it to participate in a pathetic farce and get her diploma, not feeling any pride that her long-term work has finally payed off?  


“I get it,” Headmaster says, distracting her from memories. “The thing is that it’s quite hard to arrange your life when you don’t have academic credentials, isn’t it? So, it makes sense for you to retake your N.E.W.T.s to get a new diploma. We could organize it right now, but the exams start next week, and you might not have enough time to get ready. It’s been half a year, in the end, as you’ve said.”  


“A year almost,” Jean corrects him. “I’ve spent six months there,” she waves her hand absently, meaning ‘her’ time. “And then for over three months I was at the hospital here.”  


“The more so”, Dumbledore continues inexplicably happy. “So, you don’t have to hurry. You will properly go over everything during the next school year and will be able to pass N.E.W.T.s without attending classes again, with our students. What’s wrong?” He asks, noticing that the girl grows gloomy.  


“Without attending classes…” She repeats disappointed. Sure, to have an entire year to study is much better than those two and a half months, during which they were crammed with knowledge, but still… still…  


“Would you like to take a seventh year again?” Blue eyes sparkle sharply.  


“Can I?!” The girl blurts out without thinking, jumping on her chair, and gets embarrassed when she meets his laughing gaze. “I meant, from the point of view of not interfering with the future.”  


“What will happen to it?” Dumbledore shrugs carelessly. “My understanding is that you had another name previously, so it won’t be much trouble if a student from… say, Canada, arrives to Great Britain and finishes her studies at Hogwarts. And then, when you’ll have your diploma, you will decide where to go to study or work next and how to avoid meetings which could lead to disastrous consequences. But you shouldn’t expect disasters at every turn, do you know what I mean?”  


Jean nods happily, barely holding herself from running to hug Headmaster. “Canada is lovely. I even speak French, and, perhaps, can feign Canadian accent. To which school did I go there?”  


“You like spying games, Miss Knightley, don’t you?” Dumbledore smirks. “Just don’t outplay yourself. As for the school, let’s say the Academy of the Maple Leaf. It’s one of the largest schools in North America, you can find enough information about it in our library. It’s harder to deal with transferring documents, though. They’re impossible to forge. At least, I’m not an expert in that…” he smiles mockingly at the sight of the ‘Canadian student’s’ wide open astounded eyes. “But you can pass the sixth-year exams, confirming that your educational level corresponds to our academical standards. Although, perhaps, it would be harder for you to remember the sixth-year courses than study for the N.E.W.T.s?” He strokes his beard thoughtfully.  


“No, not at all!” Jean bawls out ardently. “I remember the sixth-year courses very well, it was the last year of the normal studies for me… And you said that I still have one week, that’s enough to get ready! Only… will it really be… I mean, is it enough to pass the exams to be transferred to the seventh year with the others?”  


“I’ll arrange it,” Headmaster promises. “Your task is to prove your knowledge. Will you manage to do that?”  


“Certainly,” she promises confidently. “Can you give me the permission to use the library? I’m not a student yet…”  


Dumbledore nods in approval and signs the permission, not wasting any more time.  


“Here. While you’re not an official Hogwarts student, you’ll have to live at the suite near the Hospital Wing, and your food will be brought there, at least before the holidays start. But you can freely move around the castle and its surroundings now. I want to warn you, however, that the Forbidden Forest is…”  


“… forbidden, I understand. Thank you, sir!” Clutching the precious paper to her chest, Jean leaps up, ready to immediately rush to the library. Dumbledore opens the door for her with a spell. “Goodbye, sir!”  


“Miss Knightley?” He calls for the girl, when she’s already standing in the doorway. “Which House were you in?”  


“I won’t tell you,” she blurts and bites her tongue on the word, but it’s too late. “What makes you think I even went to Hogwarts?”  


“It’s very simple, Jean,” Headmaster smiles cunningly. “The wording you quoted yesterday, the one saying that help is always given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it. I’ve only offered this kind of support to my students. And now I think it will henceforth be some kind of password… for those who are lost.”  


Descending the stairwell, the girl hears his quiet laughter, and for the first time in long months she feels as good at heart as she did in her childhood.  



	8. Chapter 8

The night storm at the beginning of the week marks the long-awaited oncoming of normal summer weather. After a devastatingly cold spring, which didn’t give Albion even two sunny days in a row, the almost timely coming of June’s heat has some complex effect on immature adolescent minds of Hogwarts students. For that reason, the last week before the exams turns out to be absolutely counterproductive: students miserably stare through the windows during the indoors classes, while Kettleburn’s and Sprout’s explanations go to waste altogether, since, having got outdoors, students completely lose their sense of reality. Slughorn’s classes suffer less, since nothing has changed in cool dungeons with the arrival of summer, but the euphoric mood bit by bit infiltrates them too, making even the most responsible students count the minutes until the bell rings. At least, after some consultations, the Professors decide to let the starving for sun children choose where to study for the exams themselves. Students receive the consultations’ schedule and the official permission to spend time until curfew wherever they wish. They don’t have to be told twice. Now all students, from first to seventh year, spring out of the castle right after breakfast, carrying books, balls, broomsticks and food, grabbed from the Great Hall, and come back only to visit next consultation and dart away again to where warm wind smells with freedom and youth.  


Slytherin seniors have their favorite place at the school grounds which is protected with the charms of Unplottability. Every year, the next generation of graduates renews them. It’s an elevated shore of the lake across one of the small stone islets, covered with pines and dry silvery moss. The strait between the islet and the shore is too narrow for the Giant Squid, so, when the lake gets warm enough, students go swimming there. Today, despite the sunny days and warm nights, the water is still biting cold, and there’s no volunteers to swim, even though Bella tries to challenge one of the seventh years for the second day in a row. They now left for consultation on Arithmancy in the castle, so she turns to bug Macnair.  


“Wally! Come on, Wally, don’t sleep!” She puffs out her lip capriciously and jabs the guy with her firm little fist quite hard.  


“I’m not sleeping,” Walden responds in an even tone and, still not opening his eyes, catches her raised for another hit wrist. “I’m thinking.”  


“Ouch, let me go, silly!” Bella grimaces in pain and whacks Macnair with her free hand, trying to get away from his steel grip at the same time. “You’ll leave bruises on me.”  


“Says the pot,” Walden tells her pensively and captures the girl’s other hand. “Bruises adorn real men. And you’re one of the guys, right?”  


He finally opens his eyes and slightly raises his head from the ground, staring at her pale with anger face.  


“Let me go,” Bella hisses, squirming with her entire body in an attempt to free herself. She also turns out to almost be pressed to Macnair’s chest, as if on accident, and from the place where Lucius sits, you can’t tell, whose initiative is that. “I said let me go!”  


“Add a ‘please’ too,” Walden advises her with the same blank voice and closes his eyes again.  


Bella swears rudely and tries to hit him with her knee, but she only manages to let Macnair twist her wrist, making her cry out in pain.  


“Please,” she finally forces out in humiliation, and he unclenches his hands immediately, so Bella can’t hold her ground and falls face forward in the moss. “You’re an ugly git, Wally,” she adds, hastily crawling away from him.  


Macnair simply shrugs, puts his hands behind his head and smiles dreamily to some thoughts of his. The smile completely transforms Walden’s spotted, high-cheekboned face, belying Bella’s last retort entirely. In moments like this, the young man isn’t simply **not** ugly, he’s genuinely handsome with actual manlike beauty, reminding the images of warriors on medieval bas-reliefs and gravures. Lucius was always wandering, if his friend realizes an irresistible attractiveness hides behind his ordinary appearance. And every time he concluded that Macnair genuinely doesn’t care about that. Just as he doesn’t care about stupid flirtations of completely mad from the perspective of unavoidably approaching marriage Bella.  


There are persistent rumors going around, that the engagement agreement, binding the Black’s and Lestrange’s firstborns, was concluded as a result of a stupid school challenge and sealed with an **Unbreakable Vow** , when both friends haven’t even met their wives yet. Lestrange was the first to get an heir, so if Bella was born a boy, she’d become an orphan instantly. But old Cygnus was lucky. However, Lucius has his own idea about that, according to which the luck of his future father-in-law is a result of the aborticide potion’s effect. In any case, before the first daughter’s birth, Druella Black had ‘miscarriage problems’ for fifteen years. But she carried Bella and gave birth to her with no trouble. Obviously, Druella then had the task to finally produce a son to her tyrannical husband, but nature doesn’t tolerate such violations, so it retaliated the Black couple in its own way. One year later, Andromeda was born, then, in eleven months, a very early delivered Narcissa. And then there was only a succession of miscarriages, which finally deranged Mrs. Black’s health. Listening his aunts from Reims gossip about ‘poor Druella’s sufferings’, Lucius got completely sure that this rumor was quite close to being true, but only Cygnus Black himself could confirm or deny it. But only a complete lunatic would risk to ask the old man directly why he’s giving his young beautiful daughter away to an unremarkable fiancé, who’s also twice of her age.  


Be as it may, the official engagement took place last winter, binding Bella herself with the magical contract. Poor thing, apparently, hoped to the utmost that her father dies before she turns of age, and when this hope came crushing, the girl seemingly went off the handle. There’s not a single pure-blood student above the fourth year at Hogwarts to whom she didn’t offer herself during last year. Another issue is that more than half of them didn’t accept her generous gift: some out of fear of a mysterious fiancé, who, as rumor has it, takes interest in dark magic and has very unpleasant ‘friends’, others due to personal reasons. It was a piece of cake to tell who couldn’t resist: Bella excluded them from her second go in the beginning of the sixth year. However, she also gave up on Lucius quite fast, not wanting to completely ruin the relationship with her sister.  


But poor Macnair had to resist a true siege, ranging from awkward girly advances, like today’s attempt to start a fight, to his pumpkin juice getting spiked with a powerful aphrodisiac once. And although Bella’s personal list still had plenty of names without the victorious check next to them, somehow it is **Walden’s** perseverance that wounded her the most. Or is it because of the way he let her know time and time again, that he wasn’t interested? As a result, she has stopped caring about ‘collecting’ and focused all her efforts on the single object. Lucius was already preparing to witness the most fascinating showdown, when it abruptly stopped.  


After Christmas holidays Bella became her usual self. Or, **almost** usual self. She went back to her previous image of the Slytherin queen with war chief ambitions and started to socialize with her course mates without indispensable sexual implications once again. And for those, who were stupid enough to hint on some previous ‘relationships’, she always had her wand at the ready. But, at the same time, something dramatically changed in her, as if the girl matured overnight and is now thoroughly playing the role of ‘Bella before her revolt’. Knowing that Bella spent holidays at Lestranges, Lucius asked Narcissa if her sister found common ground with her fiancé. Cissy just waved her hands, assuring him that ‘such a jasper, even though he’s a pure-blood’ couldn’t **by default** evoke any feeling, except for deep disdain, in Bella. Instead, she literally dinned in her sisters’ ears about his friend. Sure enough, since the beginning of the year the older Black continually mentioned a mysterious aristocrat, to whom her future husband introduced her and with whom she is in active correspondence since after Easter. When Black’s Ural owl brings her another roll with an indicative black-green seal, Bella is running into some kind of pensiveness for a few days: she is seriously working on letters of response and even stays long at the library, digging some necessary pieces of information there. “You’d think he’s giving you an examination,” Cissy sneered once. “It’s like you’re writing an essay for Binns, not a letter.” Bella simply flashed her dark eyes in response, and no one saw her in the common room writing her responses ever again, but everybody knows anyway that she keeps thoroughly thinking over every sentence and, having surrounded herself with all the literature available, checks every word coming from under her quill. It’s hard to believe, but the seventeen-year old girl is actually trying to impress the wizard, who, according to Narcissa’s information, is even older than Bella’s fiancé, with her intellect. It would be quite funny, if there wasn’t a frightening obsession behind the girl’s behavior.  


At all other times, free from the thoughts about her mysterious correspondent, Bella behaves according to her age: worries about exams, pouts, curses Filch, gossips, turns before mirror and flirts innocently. But Macnair has once again managed to become an exception to the rule. At least, Lucius thinks that Walden is the only one who didn’t get under Bella’s personal amnesty which she declared to the Hogwarts’s male population. She is genuinely trying to act around him like she does around all the other guys, but some residual tension keeps breaking forth, convincing attentive observers that the strife is still on, only it’s on a deeper level now. What does Macnair think about all of this, Lucius doesn’t know.  


Despite the fact, that, out of all the students of his year, Walden is the closest to being the one Lucius could call a friend, their relationship is built on an unusual foundation. They almost never talk about serious and personal things, don’t try to spend as much time together as possible or to share some common activity, but some internal kinship makes all these features of a normal friendship unnecessary, sometimes even excessive. Lucius admires Walden’s steel self-control since their junior years, when he was standing against the clique of deep-pocketed students, Malfoy himself included, who were peppering him with sneers regarding the Macnairs’ lost family fortune. Walden isn’t the first son in his family, and when most of his classmates still aren’t thinking about anything more serious than quidditch or the next trip to Hogsmeade, he is paying all of his attention to studying, realizing that he wouldn’t be able to count on his parents’ money or useful connections (unless he acquires them himself) after school. Lucius got tired of teasing him, when he grew up enough to appreciate the calm dignity with which the member of the family no less ancient than the Malfoys accepts his pathetic position, and how little he actually cares about it. But by senior years respect gave way to burning envy: Walden, who’s studying thanks to scholarship fund since his first year, Walden, who will have to go working at some shabby Ministry department to support himself, Walden, to whom no pure-blood wizard will bestow his daughter, this Walden is much freer than the only heir of the richest family in Britain, who’s used to the life of a prince from the cradle, and, just like a prince, prepares to inherit an entire kingdom. Macnair, who doesn’t have anything except for his noble name, is a true master of his life, while Lucius, who could get anything, with each passing year is more and more aware just how much he’s ensnared by his family’s rules, obligations and necessity to meet his father’s expectations.  


Walden, for his part, seems to understand the nature of the confused feelings that possess Malfoy and accepts them calmly. If Lucius, the fan of rooting around in human souls and sorting all his acquaintances into tagged ledges, found an interesting specimen in his independent classmate and gets huge pleasure in studying him carefully and slowly, Macnair, on the contrary, never tries to dig deeper, as if he’s already found out the most important thing about the ‘Slytherin prince’ and finds him worthy of his trust and calm silent affection that doesn’t need any external expression. Their communication mostly happens as an exchange of looks: questionary, understanding, approving, mocking, sympathetic. And they really are enough to feel genuine kinship, a special connection that no one, besides the two involved, can understand. Just like now Lucius only needs to raise his glance from his notes for a moment to catch the warning flash in squinted gray-green eyes that means a request to abstain from articulating the first thought that crossed his mind, no matter how fresh, original or witty it seems. Shrugging slightly, Lucius returns to his interrupted reading, but at that moment Bella, who’s still wandering around, clings to his shoulder: “And what are **you** doing, Luc?” She drawls in the same capricious voice she has just used to get Macnair’s attention.  


“Studying for the exam,” Lucius says. Brushing off girls isn’t really his style; besides he clearly sees that Bella is choked with the fret of how stupid she just made herself look in front of everyone and how desperately she wants to show that **absolutely nothing** happened. “On History of Magic. You should do that too, by the way…”  


“History of Magic is an absolutely pointless subject,” she grimaces. “The Ministry excluded the topics regarding the persecution of wizards in Middle Ages from the school curriculum **in order to not provoke a biased attitude towards muggle population** ,” the last sentence is delivered pointedly, as if the girl quotes someone she positively disagrees with. “They’re trying to convince us that all of the magical history consisted only of endless wars with goblins, supreme vampires and giants, unashamedly editing out the disgraceful pages of…”  


“That’s not true,” Theodora Burke interferes, tearing herself away from a book. “They don’t edit out anything. Don’t you remember, we even had to write an essay on Wycliffe’s biography last year? And we’re going to study Middle Ages in details during our seventh year. I know exactly, I’ve seen it in Christian’s notes for N.E.W.T.s, there’s a special topic named ‘Holy Inquisition’. You can even ask our graduates!”  


“Nothing to ask them, I’ve seen the textbook myself,” Bella’s eyes light up darkly. “I’ll give you some food for thought: the entire Inquisition’s activity is written off as a political conflict which wizards themselves organized and encouraged. Even Torquemada was just a mad Squib who drowned Spain in blood out of revenge for his childish disappointment! Isn’t it lovely?!”  


“According to another version, he was under _Imperio_ ,” Lucius comments. “It’s just that the name of the person, who hexed him, is not preserved by history. How convenient…”  


“There! That’s what I’m talking about,” Bella is happy for his support. “Magical Europe was practically degenerated, and what explanation do they offer us? None at all! Even a child would not believe all this nonsense about witch hunt having nothing in common with actual persecution of wizards. Britain was lucky, of course, we had Wycliffe, but the problem remained in place. And if the Ministry thinks that muggles are so plotless, why do we keep hiding from them?”  


“What will change if we admit them being dangerous?” Theo puts a long fair lock behind her ear and, shutting down the book, gets up from a fallen tree trunk she was sitting on. “Will we declare a war to all of them? Or we’ll keep hiding, only shaking with fright this time?”  


“We shouldn’t lull ourselves with fairy tales,” Bella cuts off, also getting on her feet. “About muggles not actually wanting to torture, hunt and burn our ancestors. About them not being guilty **at all** in destroying unique libraries and priceless artefacts. About times having changed, and how we can easily be friends with them now or even give birth to their children,” her face grimaces in disgust, and her eyes flash ravenously from under heavy eyelids once again.  


“Don’t be so dramatic, Bella,” Theodora frowns slightly, clearly not being happy with letting herself be drawn into a politics discussion. “You’re blaming modern muggles for things they can’t be responsible by any means. If you want to know, _Malleus Maleficarum_ was condemned by the Inquisition back in the end of the **fifteenth century** , and the commons never have been supporting this initiative of the catholic church…”  


“They were simply coming to admire a weekly auto-da-fe,” Lucius hums in a low voice.  


“… because they were suffering from inquisitorial means of investigation no rarer than actual witches,” Theo continues coolly. “And, besides, muggles themselves consider Holy Inquisition’s acts a shameful page of their history, despite the fact that they have no idea about actual extent of damage, infringed on magical world.”  


“Theo, you’re so naïve for your age,” Bella sings in a sugary sweet voice, through which threatening notes show distinctively. “They’re ready to recognize Torquemada’s, Remy’s, Voss’s, Kramer’s actions a terrible mistake **exactly** because they think that there’s no such thing as magic. But if they learn that witches actually exist, they’d reconsider their attitude towards both inquisitor’s methods and tasks in an instant. And they’d drag to bonfires everyone they haven’t finished off in the sixteenth century **with jeers**. That’s why it is necessary to understand that every muggle-born, admitted to our world, is a threat to us all. Not to mention how they break age-old traditions with their filthy hands, not even realizing they exist, they give birth to Squibs and weaken our genetic pool, their mere presence offends pure-blood wizards, forced to tolerate that the descendants of torturers now have the same rights as those…”  


“It’s not true about Squibs and genetic pool, by the way,” Burke interrupts her quickly. "We saw statistics at the Muggle Studies which clearly shows that…”  


“And you believe that?” Lucius asks. “I think the conversation started with Bella expressing her distrust in our Ministry which manipulates the curriculum in such a way so as to form a specific attitude towards modern muggle-loving policy among the youngsters since their school days. And, by the way, I tend to agree with her on that matter to a large extent. Particularly, it wouldn’t require any huge efforts to falsify statistics…”  


“You don’t know that for sure!” Theo juts her chin out stubbornly. “I love muggles no more than you do, but I don’t understand why we should get stuck on medieval spook stories which are irrelevant to our life today. All this mugglephobia, just like any other phobia, only complicates our lives: look at inter-Houses wars at least! And the Ministry’s policy is not defined by us anyway, so I don’t see any reason for them to falsify and manipulate something in the school curriculum.”  


“Has it ever occurred to you that the fate of the magical world will be in our hands right after graduation?” Bella speaks smugly. “And **we’re** the ones who will determine policy, so that’s why they are brainwashing us in advance!”  


“I, for one, am not going to concern myself with any other fates than my own after graduation,” Theo says, smiling dreamily. “Right after school Christian and I will get married, and we will raise little pure-blood Notts, so the issue of the muggle-borns’ integration interests me solely in theory. Here, at Hogwarts, I can tolerate their presence just fine, and in the future, I won’t have to encounter them at all. Honestly, you’re scraping the barrel here, that’s my opinion. What do **you** think, Wally?” she turns to Macnair, who is quietly listening to their fight, still laying on his back with hands put behind his head.  


“I think,” he starts slowly, sitting up to better see his classmates, “that amusing thoughts play in our Bella’s pretty little head recently. And I’m genuinely curious, where does she get so much vigor… and passion…”  


Judging by how furiously her aristocratic nostrils are flaring, Black is clearly going to put the specified vigor and passion in her response, but at this moment Philip Parkinson, who is building a labyrinth of stones with Peneas Greengrass, raises his head: “And I think that since we’ve all missed lunch today, it would be nice to get to the castle in time for dinner. Therefore I suggest we hold that: (a) in order to preserve the pure-blood genetical pool, scratching your classmate’s eyes out is considered to amount to blood treason and is punished according to wartime laws; (b) in order to not increase negativity and pre-examination stress, we abstain from discussing sensitive political issues in areas, crowded by emotionally unstable classmates; and, finally, (c) we organize a rescue party to search for our gruesome-twosome,” he waves his hand in the direction of a pile of boulders behind which Prewett and Wellfarber retreated.  


“Patcher,” Bella snorts disdainfully and, not waiting for anyone, heads to school, but Lucius sees that she’s actually grateful to Philip, who once again didn’t let her take on desperate spar with unyielding Macnair. A unique talent of Parkinson to give, at the right moment and with a straight face, a genuine masterpiece of eloquence repeatedly helped to reconcile conflict situations in Slytherin. It’s simply impossible to seriously boil with some momentary grudge, while watching how a short, tubby, sturdy fellow didactically dabs his thick finger, ostentatiously holds out his hands to the horizon and passionately jerks up his disheveled head, uttering the entire deluges of bureaucratese. Offering his hand to Walden to help him get up from the ground, Lucius yet again thinks that Phil deserves a prefect’s badge much more than he does.  


Not waiting for Theodora to shout until she’s heard by Amanda and Stephan, Lucius and Walden follow Bella, but once they cross the unplottability line, the girl’s impetuous black thatch already flashes by greenhouses.  


“You shouldn’t tease her,” Lucius can’t resist in the end. “Our Bella is an emotional and vindictive girl. Messing with her is…”  


Macnair stops him with an expressive look which clearly lets Lucius see that he doesn’t want to discuss this topic now or ever again in the foreseeable future. Lucius only sighs to himself, trying to herd in his burning curiosity, which is one of his foundational traits and is simply impossible to get rid of, somewhere deep.  


At the entrance to the Great Hall they run into Sprout, who’s hurrying somewhere, clutching a big scroll to her chest.  


“Oh, Mr. Malfoy, what a score!” She’s genuinely happy. “Professor McGonagall left the schedule of the staff’s summer vacations on her desk, could you please catch her and give it back…”  


“Of course, ma’am,” Lucius decides to be a good boy. “Where is she headed to?”  


“I think, to her House’s common room,” Sprout supposes, not exceptionally sure. “Go up to the Gryffindor Tower, I hope, you’ll catch her,” nodding gratefully, Professor of Herbology returns to the Great Hall.  


“Would you like me to keep you company?” Walden offers. “It’s not as frustrating if you’re late for dinner together with someone.”  


Lucius nods and smiles, concluding that with all his impassivity, Macnair still bewares of meeting Bella on his own. But he’s not going to bring up this subject anymore, and for some time they climb the central stairs in silence.  


“Surely McGonagall runs the stairs in her cat disguise,” Walden, starting to gasp already, finally breaks the silence. “We’ll never catch her like this, and you sure enough don’t know the Gryffs’ password,” he wants to add something else, but suddenly raises his hand, pointing at something above, and asks surprised. “What kind of ghost is this?”  


Lucius follows his gesture and finds that the same girl, for whom he ‘arranged a tour’ on Monday, is sitting with her legs crossed right on the flagstones on one of the fifth floor’s landings, absorbed in some scroll. Lucius saw Headmaster safe and sound since then, so he drew a conclusion that either the weird witch didn’t want to do anything bad, or Dumbledore managed to deal with her. Anyway, it doesn’t concern Lucius anymore, and he had time to completely forget about the girl, being sure that she left the castle long time ago anyway. And here she is back again, sits and waits for a possibility to descend, as if there’s nothing more usual than that! Continuing to climb on his staircase, Lucius calls her: “Hey, hello! What are you doing here?”  


The girl gives a start of surprise and looks at him extremely ungraciously from top downward.  


“What does it look like?” She asks mockingly. “I’m coming back from the library.”  


“Coming back?” Lucius quirks his brow questioningly in a move he stole from his father. “Where to?”  


“To my place,” she cuts off and stares back to her parchment, letting him see expressly that she considers the conversation ended.  


Lucius, shrugging loosely, proceeds further. Macnair, following him, sweeps the little smart ass with a close look, when they draw up to her landing, but she doesn’t raise her head anymore, completely ignoring the Slytherins climbing past her.  


“So, who’s that?” Walden pries, when they go down from the stairs to the corridor, leading to the Gryffindor Tower.  


“No idea,” Lucius answers.  


***  


The week, designated to the exams’ preparation, is nearly over, and Jean starts to think whether she should ask Poppy for a calming potion. She doesn’t remember being so nervous, left without Harry’s and Ron’s support, who were usually mocking her everlasting pre-examinational anxiety. “ _What a load of cack, I know very well that I’m ready, as I always am. Why do I need to hear it from someone else?_ ” Jean is most worried about Ancient Runes and History of Magic which are not taught at the Academy, and the textbooks for which she didn’t open since the school ended. Herbology, Astronomy and Artihmancy could be in this list as well, but Jean hopes to pass the former two, strictly practical disciplines, thanks to ‘hands memory’, and the latter always was her favorite subject at school and sits firmly in her head. “ _I’ll do it. I’ll do it,_ ” she repeats to herself, choosing at a guess a question of the examinational curriculum that Dumbledore provided her with. “ _The Fifteenth Druids Convent: decisions and their implications on the establishment of an independent Irish magical community, the Great Schism of 1641… Oh, I remember this well. I even remember how Finnigan and Thomas almost got into a fight in the process of discussion of this issue in the middle of the Gryffindor common room._ ” Nevertheless, she knocks out an approximate plan of the response and barely opens the textbook to check dates, when she hears some voices.  


Jean frowns: in a week that passed she got used to the fact that the library is let all to herself. According to Headmaster, students got the permission to prepare for exams where they prefer most, and since they already have all the necessary books, no one comes here to study. Jean would also prefer to sit on her terrace, rather than under Madam Pince’s gimlet eye. She looks just the way the girl remembers her from her time at school and still suspects everyone has blasphemous intentions to ruin as much of school property as possible. But, generally speaking, empty library loses to the terrace only due to its lack of sunlight Jean’s unhealthily pale skin needs and impossibility to drink some tea while studying. As for the rest, she is pretty much happy with the existing situation, until, at least, she manages to study in silence. But now a noisy party is clearly approaching the library, and Madam Pince purses her lips disapprovingly at the mere thought of a pending invasion of ‘young barbarians’.  


It turns out there are five barbarians: two girls and three young men aged between sixteen and seventeen. Only one of the girls is wearing uniform, the others are dressed simpler. Two of them, a lanky guy with fiery-red hair, subtly reminding Ron, and his broad-shouldered tanned blond-haired friend, even wear jeans and T-shirts. They clearly spent all morning outside and drop in to the castle just to double check something. The whole gang steadily head right to the bookcase with bestiaries behind which Jean’s desk is situated. The kids disperse along the tall shelf and start to briskly shake it up, talking over their searching process.  


“I’m completely sure that I saw this description with my own eyes,” a short dark-haired witch in fair robes of some light material, reminding a tunic by its cut, murmurs. Her round preoccupied face shows up in a breach, made by a ponderous volume she takes from the shelf, and Jean’s breath catches in her throat. Young Alice Longbottom is looking at her with her astonished gray-blue eyes. “ _Not Longbottom yet,_ ” Jean corrects herself silently, hastily lowering her eyes back to her parchment.  


“Fabs!” Alice calls quietly. “Fabian!”  


Red-haired guy, who is the closest standing to her, moves up, and they start to consult in an excited whispering that doesn’t leave Jean a single doubt that the conversation is about her. The third guy joins them instantly, not being inspired by conspiration considerations, and, having the books moved aside, speaks in a deep voice: “Where?” His eyes fall on Jean on the word, and she raises her head again, realizing that she can’t avoid conversations this time. “Hi!” His face lights up in a kind smile. “I’m Frank. Are you here to…?”  


“My name’s Jean. I’m kind of transferring to Hogwarts next year,” Jean introduces herself, smiling unintentionally in response. It’s so easy now to think that Frank is the father of just as flap-eared and smiley Neville, not the patient of the Fourth Floor at the St. Mungo’s Hospital.  


“Oh, cool. Well, in that case, welcome! Anything happens – call me,” Frank reaches out with his wide palm right through the bookcase, and Jean gets up from the desk to answer his handshake.  


”Our Frank is Gryffindor’s prefect,” the girl explains, playfully digging Frank in the ribs. “But he’s graduating this year. Which year are you going to be?”  


“Seventh, if I pass the exams.”  


“So, we’re going to study together. By the way, I’m Alice Cadogan.”  


“Nice to meet you, I’m Jean Knightley.”  


“Hey, is anyone going to introduce me?” The red-haired guy rounds the shelves and appears before Jean. “Fabian Prewett at your service, beautiful lady,” he makes a buffoonish bow, “the worthiest member of the Lions’ House.”  


Jean laughs, offering him a hand. “ _This must be Fabian, Mrs. Weasley’s younger brother,_ ” she remembers. “ _It looks like sad memories expect me at every step of the way._ ” Fabian sits behind the desk, stretching his long legs across the passage, and stares expectantly at Jean.  


“Well, tell us something about yourself!” He demands impatiently, looking at her from the bottom upwards.  


“ _His eyes are just like Ginny’s,_ ” the girl thinks.  


“Never mind Fabs,” Alice comes to them and dishevels her friend’s red hair. “He has no idea what good manners are, even though he’s trying with all his might to make an opposite impression.”  


Fabian snorts and dodges her hand with an insulted look. At that time Frank and the rest of the gang, the girl in uniform and a fair-haired young man which were exploring a neighboring shelf before, join them. The girl also vaguely reminds someone. “ _If it wasn’t for Ravenclaw’s symbols on her prefects’ badge and for this open smile, I could think she is…_ ”  


“And this is Andromeda Black and Ted Tonks,” Frank introduces them. “Ted is my classmate from Hufflepuff, and Andromeda is on the same year with Fabs.”  


“Jean Knightley,” the girl introduces herself for the third time, starting to get used to that name.  


“We’ve found it, Alice!” Andromeda boasts, showing some book. “It’s written here that the babies hatch out being snow-white, then their scale gets silvery-blue, like Scamander’s classification mentions, and they become dark-blue when they’re old…”  


“Babies are not separate individuals!” Fabian bursts out indignantly. “We were talking about adult dragons.”  


“Not at all!” Alice puts out her tongue at him, hiding behind Frank’s back before doing that. “I’ve only said what I saw in the description that the Swedish Short-Snout can be white. So, you’ve lost, and don’t try to wriggle out of it! Fabs thinks he’s the greatest expert on dragons,” she explains to Jean in a low voice.  


“Let me get this straight, did we drag ourselves here, breaking away from exams preparation, because of your stupid argument?!” Franks roars, but it’s apparent he isn’t really angry. “I thought you need it for your O.W.L.s…”  


“Don’t grumble,” Alice interrupts him gently. “They might need it for their O.W.L.s, and it’s useful to know in general, and it’s not possible to think only about exams all day. At least, this way we had a walk.”  


“Besides,” Fabian contracts, “if we didn’t come here, we wouldn’t meet Jean,” he makes another bow to her. “By the way, why are you stuck in the castle, when the weather outside is so nice?”  


“I’m not allowed to take the books out of the library hall,” she explains. “So, I have to study here.”  


“Good gracious, what a sophisticated sadism!” Andromeda’s smiley brown eyes have so much warmth that the first impression of her being very much alike to Bellatrix disappears quickly.  


“ _Harry also said that,_ ” Jean remembers.  


“Yeah, sitting here, all alone, with windows shut…” Alice makes a face which had to express fright and compassion to her counterpart’s hard luck, but her exuberantly good mood negates all efforts.  


“You can study with us,” Andromeda offers in the meantime. “Alice thinks that since she’s already passed her O.W.L.s, and N.E.W.T.s are next year, she doesn’t have to study for exams at all. So, her textbooks lay around unwanted…”  


“Hey!” Now Alice tries to embody being insulted, but she’s just as unsuccessful as Fabian was. “That’s not true, I’m studying. Even though I remember everything very well as it is, by the way. But,” she turns to Jean, “I wouldn’t say no to a partner. Really, you should go with us! We’ll check each other’s knowledge of Wizengamot’s assemblies… I simply am not able to learn their rulings on my own, I’m falling asleep with boredom.”  


While Alice is wasting her eloquence, persuading Jean to join their party, Fabian expertly scoops notes that the girl was doing in the process of exam preparation from the desk.  


“Anything else to keep us in this terrible dusty room?” He asks, handing Jean her property. “No? In that case, let’s go outside.”  


And, being carried away by a crowd of new friends, Jean leaves the library, sending a small apologetic smile to gloomy Madam Pince.  



	9. Chapter 9

Having stuck a label on the last phial of haematogenic potion, Jean stretches herself in delight. She had to work a lot during last month, but now the result pleases her eye. Although the new lab can’t show off with rare ingredients or expensive equipment, but it’s perfectly organized from Jean’s point of view. Definitely, she should be proud of her work, and, what’s more important, the rest of this endlessly long summer, threatening to become a genuine nightmare, raced by almost unnoticed.  


In the first week after exams Jean simply enjoyed her freedom and idleness, being left to her own devices and having the entire castle at her service. Most of the time she was simply hanging about the lake’s shore, not bothering herself even with reading books which she now could take out anywhere. A couple of days later she realized that she seriously regrets not accepting Alice’s invitation to stay at her place. The next day she thought that she’s eagerly waiting for an owl from Fabs, who ended his every message with a marriage proposal. One more week, and she’d agree to run away to Romania with him to study dragons together. Just as she’d agree to run away with Filch to the Great Barrier Reef to catch and tame giant squids. And then Jean stumbles on a small back room of the Hospital Wing, situated right across of her door. She suspects that there was a lab here once, at least, the ventilation system in this part of the castle is organized in a very specific manner. And the fact that the adjoining room turned out to be meant to store medications, judging by the presence of shelves with cooling and light-protective charms, only confirms her guess.  


Her existence took on meaning right away. Having obtained Dumbledore’s permission, Jean set about work. With the help of irreplaceable Misie, she cleaned the lab and storage room from all the garbage that they were stuffed with in the last twenty years. Then Misie set about repairing the ventilation and plumbing, while the girl was bringing long lab tables and cases’ shelves to the suitable condition. This turned out to be a difficult task, since it couldn’t be resolved with usual transfiguration: the equipment for potion making shouldn’t carry an imprint of foreign magic, so that it doesn’t influence the ingredients’ properties. That’s why Jean had to master a spell from the Advanced Charms sphere that allows to jinx carpenter’s tools and direct them. Flitwick was very surprised, but he helped willingly. He even took a little part in the reparations. Having gotten an appetite for working with flying nails and pad-saws, Jean constructed a quite comfortable office stool which would allow her to watch the contents of a cauldron without standing up all by herself.  


She had to ask Slughorn for cauldrons. Not knowing what is potion master’s attitude towards her ‘vigilanteism’, Jean was summoning up courage for a long while, and then she addressed Headmaster. Dumbledore surprised her once again. “Of course, Miss Knightley!” He exclaims right away. "I’ve already spoke to Horace, and he’s ready to provide you with a set of cauldrons and bailers, as well as with a stock of necessary ingredients. To be honest, I’ve been counting that you will manage to be useful as you have promised. Professor Slughorn plans to go on yet another vacation, and Poppy discovered a lack of some solutions in her storage. Of course, this might wait until the beginning of a school year, but if you are…”  


“Well, of course I’m ready!” Jean agrees gladly. She didn’t even consider Headmaster trusting her with making potions for the hospital, despite the fact that he was present at her Potions exams which she passed brilliantly.  


“Well, in such case I’m formally establishing you as an intern, and you’ll be at Poppy’s service until the end of summer. You didn’t have other plans, did you?”  


“No, but I… I didn’t mean at all…”  


Dumbledore smiles encouragingly. “But you need personal money. Scholarship fund will provide you with means to buy uniform, textbooks and other school supplies in accordance with a list of requirements, but you do have some needs and wishes of your own?”  


Of course, there are wishes. Since her arrival at Hogwarts, Jean wears the robes she was given at St. Mungo’s. Misie takes it to clean and refresh every night, but it’s too heavy weight for summer, and in the end the girl had to borrow some clothes from Poppy and transfigure it to her size. Jean isn’t very good in sartorial magic, so she’s not satisfied with how her robes fit her. But she’s more worried about lingerie which is completely worn out due to permanent washing. That’s a good enough reason to desperately need money, but she’s terribly embarrassed when Headmaster offers her a job. She didn’t start the lab repairment for this, and now it looks like she literally thrust herself upon remuneration of her labor.  


While the blushing, turning pale and stammering Jean murmurs her gratitude, Dumbledore quickly writes an order of accepting the seventh-year student as the nurse’s assistant. “Too bad I didn’t realize I should’ve done it earlier. But we will register you with retrospective effect, and in the end of August you’ll receive money two months at once. In the meantime, I could lend you a required sum…”  


Jean simply shakes her head at it. Sure, it’s stupid, but she already feels as if she has begged for a handout. Besides, she owes to Healer Weiss and Tom from the Leaky Cauldron in any case. “There’s no need to, sir. I can wait until my paycheck just fine.”  


“But it will only be in two weeks,” Dumbledore warns.  


Jean just shrugs. In the end, she has plenty to occupy herself with. And, finally, the two weeks are over, and the girl is anticipating the forthcoming trip to London. A house-elf, sent by Headmaster, already brought her the message asking her to visit Headmaster and receive her paycheck, and Jean, having finished bottling freshly boiled potions into phials, washes her hands and tries to comb her hair. Her bangs grew over the summer and completely cover her eyes now, no matter how hard the girl tries to comb it back or tuck it in behind her ears. “ _Should I cut it or let it grow_?” She moodily asks herself once again, when the door to the lab opens up.  


“Excuse me for taking so long!” Poppy holds out a parchment to her. “Here, I’ve written a request so you could order the lacking ingredients at the Diagon Alley. Just have it signed by Dumbledore, so the school would cover your expenses. One more thing, can you drop by the post office in London?”  


Poppy still didn’t accept that her newly found friend turns out to be another student, and she continues to treat her as an equal. It’s not that they talk too much: the nurse spent the entire July with her family in France, and when she came back, Jean was already completely absorbed by her precious lab. But they have lunch and drink evening tea at Jean’s terrace together, talking about Poppy’s vacation and the fabulous guy she met in Lyon. The guy’s name is Bernard Pomfrey, and Jean smiles mysteriously, listening to Poppy’s grumblings that, in spite of all his virtues, her new friend does not correspond at all to her image of a future life partner. Besides, the guy’s a muggle, and Poppy still didn’t tell him who she is. She sends him letters from London’s post office and receives responses poste restante.  


“Of course, I can. Is that far from the Diagon Alley?”  


Poppy shakes her head arduously, making her curls bounce. “Not really. The next building to the left from the Leaky Cauldron. Correspondence for Anne Duval. That’s my name,” she laughs, catching Jean’s surprised look.  


“Nice to meet you, Anne,” she smiles in response.  


“I don’t like my name,” Poppy waves her hand carelessly. “Right, you should go to Headmaster. And have proper fun in London! You deserve it with a couple of months of selfless work.”  


“Thanks for the kind words!” Jean snorts and, having the lab shut, heads to Dumbledore’s.  


***  


Cursing the whole world, Lucius hurries down the pathway leading to Hogwarts, levitating a bunch of new broomsticks. He understands that the vacations are over for him anyway, but he still wants to get rid of an unpleasant business as quickly as possible. After a wonderful summer he has spent at the Lestranges’s villa, it is twice a shame to go back to the daily reality in which his father impertinently orders him about. Why couldn’t these damned broomsticks be sent with a house-elf or in a luggage department of the Hogwarts Express? Why, in the end, his father couldn’t carry out his governor’s duty himself and deliver the quidditch kit that Madam Hooch has wheedled out of him personally? Lucius knows the answers to his questions perfectly. There was no other need to take him away from company of interesting people and lovely holidays on the seaside, except for the fact that Abraxas Malfoy hates to lose control over his only heir.  


When Bella invited him, Sebastien Crabbe and Christian Nott to spend August at the Spanish villa, belonging to her fiancé’s parents, Lucius agreed without enthusiasm. He could have gone to the seaside himself: Malfoys own a villa between Hyeres and Toulon and a small summer cottage in Grimaud, and, when Lucius’s mother was still alive, they’ve spent every summer at the Cote-d’Azur. But Bella asked him so much, Nott and Crabbe are a nice company, and Lucius was very curious to look at the mysterious lord, to whom she promised to introduce him. In the end, he asked his father for a couple of days leave, but stayed for almost a month instead.  


He and Nott arrived with a Portkey and didn’t leave the villa’s territory, so Lucius never knows in which locality it is situated. They had a personal beach at their service, a garden of orange trees and a large, cool house, but the party was spending almost all of their time on a small patio. It is formed by the walls of the U-shaped house and closed by the vine covered grating from the southern side. An archway leads through it to the sea. All the bedrooms, situated on the first floor, have an exit to the patio, so the guests were gathering here since the morning. Leisurely conversation, started at breakfast, continued until the siesta, and then the group moved inside the house, returning to the patio’s heated flagstones in a few hours.  


Along with Bella, Crabbe, Nott and Lucius, Lestrange brothers and the promised lord Voldemort, whose company was the reason Lucius could easily call this summer the best in his life, also stayed at the villa. Since the first evening in the Lord’s (as he asked to be called) company, Bella’s obsession started to seem understandable and even natural. This man is to be admired at first sight, and every new meeting only intensifies this impression. He confessed that he graduated from Hogwarts almost thirty years ago, but he looks younger than both Lestranges all the same. His aristocratic poise, keen dark eyes, elegant pale hands, deep beautiful voice, literally everything in him is fascinating, but, most importantly, Lucius can physically feel the waves of all-powerful magic, coming off the Lord. He is overflowing with strength even Dumbledore, considered to be the most powerful wizard of the century, doesn’t have.  


This first impression alone was enough for Lucius to change his plans and agree to stay at the villa longer. But there were conversations as well. The Lord, who instantly strikes as an educated and thoughtful man, is genuinely interested in the opinion of the boys, who have graduated only a year ago! Lucius, as the youngest member of the party, hesitated to engage in serious conversations about science and politics at first, until the Lord insistently drew him to the general discussion. His fears of blurting out something stupid were forgotten at once. This marvelous man talked to him as an equal: a privilege Lucius never received from his own father. Rodolphus, Bella’s fiancé, and his brother Rabastan, following the Lord’s steps, treated their younger counterparts with respect and didn’t show a single shadow of patronizing or superior attitude. The Lord knows how to ask questions, the answers to which could be found on one’s own, and the embarrassment of not knowing something gave way to a delight of searching, to most enthralling intellectual challenges that all three Slytherins completed with flying colors. This feeling is just as intoxicating as the old wines that Rodolphus was bringing out of the cellar.  


Bella hardly participated in male conversations. She happily played the role of the mistress of the house and delighted in her special position of the only woman of the party. Lucius is sure that it is the exact reason Bella invited him and Nott, and not Theo or her own sister. Bella doesn’t tolerate rivalry in anything, and it became even more obvious after two more guests arrived: Amycus and Alecto Carrow. Those two, as Lucius have understood, studied at Durmstrang and were invited to the villa by the Lord. Recent graduates too, they, nevertheless, are a far cry from Crabbe and Nott which shows a huge gap between Hogwarts and Durmstrang. Sebastien and Christian, who’ve read a great lot of books on dark magic in the school library’s Restricted Section, make the impression of being third-year Hufflepuffs comparing to the Carrows. Brother and sister look like they are **actually** practicing everything that Slytherins have only read about. Alecto especially. At first, she reminded Lucius of that girl, who almost cursed him in the Entrance Hall during the night storm: the same sharp unexpected movements, readiness to get the wand out, jump away, dodge, hit with a hex. But the threat, coming off Alecto, is practically **palpable**. Short plumpish girl with inexpressive face features and some kind of mouse-gray hair must remind a bloodthirsty she-wolf, aiming at her opponent’s throat, when fighting. Lucius was very surprised, when, since Carrows’s first minutes at the villa, it became evident that Bella sees Alecto as a rival. He needed a few days to understand, what makes her envy so much so that she can’t even look at the new guest without a spiteful grimace. Tall, graceful Bella, with beautiful dark eyes and chic mane of shiny thundercloud-colored hair terribly, gruesomely, laughably envies this dangerous aura that surrounds Alecto. Envies, because her beloved Lord, it seems, values this quality in Alecto the most. Otherwise, Lucius couldn’t imagine at all, what does a brilliant, educated wizard, who is well-versed in everything, from the subtlety of potion-making and mental magic to the laws of the society’s development and history, who’s interested in the broadest range of issues, who can express his thoughts with such finesse and build elegant strings of logic, have in common with a pair of **pitbulls**. Amycus and Alecto make an impression of people who were raised to kill, and the Lord is clearly proud that he has managed to tame these two, although Merlin knows why does he need that.  


Nevertheless, with Carrows’s presence it became clear that the time of intellectual conversations from morning till night has gone. But, despite Lucius’s concerns, the changes that occurred to the day’s routine only made their vacation even more fascinating. On Bella’s insistence, a duel club was arranged in the villa’s great hall in which the brother and sister have willingly started to share their knowledge of dark martial curses. To Lucius’s huge astonishment, the Lord himself turns out to be an unrivalled duelist. Moreover, he is a much better teacher than Amycus, and the sparring with him pleased even Nott, who doesn’t like dueling art much. Not to mention Crabbe and Bella who, with their eyes burning, absorbed explanations and were ready to train until they’re completely exhausted. Lucius and Nott, in the meantime, were practicing in casting Imperio and bringing illusions. Rabastan Lestrange started to disappear in the lab, arranged in the basement, more and more, and, from time to time, someone from the curious youth joined him there. It turned out that Rabastan didn’t make potions, but rather some mixed explosives. His scientific work was prohibited by the Paris University of Magic, where he was completing his higher education, but he continued to work on his project alone, having chosen the same old Lord as his research advisor. Watching Rabastan’s inventions, Lucius was wondering if there is an area of knowledge the Lord is rubbish at, but even the thought of it seemed blasphemous to him. This man is perfect and full of boiling energy at the same time, making those who surround him to improve themselves too. And this was the atmosphere his father’s peremptory order pulled him out of!  


Finally reaching the quidditch pitch, Lucius props the lock of brooms to the shed’s wall and pulls some other junk out of his pocket: bats, shin pads, keeper’s gloves… Returning the equipment to its original sizes, he once again regrets that he couldn’t diminish the broomsticks in the same way without damaging their flying properties: levitating them from Hogsmeade required more efforts than he has estimated, and now he desperately wants to fall right on the grass of the quidditch pitch and sleep for at least a couple of hours. But Malfoys do not allow themselves to relax in public places, so he has to urgently finish with his father’s orders and Apparate somewhere… far.  


“Ah, Mr. Malfoy, there you are!” a cheerful voice rings behind his back. Madam Hooch appears from somewhere behind the locker rooms, and now she’s examining the brooms in admiration. “Those are new Cleansweeps! Finally, it’s time to replace almost a dozen brooms. Give my enormous gratitude to your father.”  


“This comes from the entire Board of Governors,” Lucius warns sourly. “So…”  


“It doesn’t matter. I know **who exactly** brought this issue at the meeting and achieved a positive decision.”  


“I will,” Lucius nods. “You should also sign here, for accounting…”  


Madam Hooch looks carefully at the parchment, he’s holding out to her. “Oh no, it’s not my signature that is needed here, it’s Dumbledore’s! He’s right at his office now.”  


Groaning in thought, Lucius thanks the witch and shuffles off to the castle. “ _Like I want to drag myself to the old nutjob’s…_ ” he thinks disrespectfully, slowly plodding along the steps. From the Lord’s tales of his years studying at Hogwarts, Lucius got the impression that Headmaster already was slightly off his trolley back then: take, for example, the story with the girl, killed by Hagrid’s acromantula. And this man… this **half** -man keeps working at school, as if nothing happened! Moreover, he still raises some shady little animals, Lucius is sure about that.  


Lucius doesn’t know the Gargoyle’s password and has no wish whatsoever to recount different sweets that could have crossed Dumbledore’s mind till evening comes. But the stone guardian pulls off aside on its own, and the Headmaster’s voice rings from above. “Mr. Malfoy, please, come up!”  


The door to the office also turns out to be open, and Lucius comes inside.  


“As long as I understand, you’ve arrived today to bless Madam Hooch with new flying kits, right? Give me your parchment and have a seat. Would you like some tea?”  


“No, thank you, sir,” Lucius answers politely, trying to regain his previous state of annoyance. But he can’t do anything: either the chair he flopped on distributes calming charms, or he’s too tired, having gotten up early today after yesterday’s Apparition across the whole country, the mountain ridge and the sea strait, but, in any case, he lacks energy to keep raging.  


Lucius closes his eyes wearily and even thinks that maybe Dumbledore won’t mind if he rests here a little, but at that moment an acrid mix of smells of different potions hits his nose. Expecting to see his Head of House, Lucius hops up of the chair hastily and almost pounces upon a figure that reminds Slughorn neither with its height, nor with its complexion.  


“Ah, Miss Knightley,” blue eyes sparkle cunningly from under the glasses. “How fortunate that you’ve come.”  


***  


The passage to the Headmaster’s office is free, and Jean, not asking for the Gargoyle’s permission, climbs upstairs. Just as she steps across the threshold, she’s nearly knocked down by someone hopping from behind the chair so fast that the girl doesn’t even have the time to pull out her wand.  


“Ah, Miss Knightley,” Dumbledore, fidgeting with some papers on his desk, greets her, “how fortunate that you’ve come.”  


“ _Fortunate?! That’s plain derision! Where does he even get to here from **on holidays**? And why it has to be **him**?_”  


“I suppose you’d like to receive your pay,” Headmaster continues nonchalantly. “Take a seat. You’ve already met Mr. Malfoy?”  


“Err, not really…” Jean gets embarrassed, while Malfoy smirks in the most disgusting way.  


“Yes, I wouldn’t call it a meeting,” he chips in, returning to his chair.  


“I understand. Well, Jean, meet one of the school’s prefects and your classmate. Lucius Malfoy studies at Slytherin. Mr. Malfoy, Miss Knightley is our new student.”  


Jean nods curtly, showing in every way that she’s not interested at all in an exchange of civilities with Mr. Malfoy. Admittedly, the Slytherin also doesn’t groove on talking.  


“Nice to meet you,” he grumbles and closes his eyes wearily, as if he’s disgusted by even looking at Jean.  


“Miss Knightley, please, sign here,” Headmaster calls the girl. “Your eleven galleons, five sickles. Your scholarship paycheck also arrived, you can redeem it in the Gringotts bank on the Diagon Alley.”  


“ _Eleven galleons for one month and a half? Not bad for a seasonal side job, but if I had to live at such expenses, then… Well, it seems, there really are no chances to get a normal job without N.E.W.T.s in the magical world._ ” The scholarship was much more generous, consisting of almost forty galleons. “ _I can’t imagine why have the Weasleys never applied for the scholarship? Was it just out of pride?_ ”  


“Thank you,” Jean puts the check and money in a charmed pocket of her robes. “As long as I understand, the scholarship money comes only once for a school year?”  


“No, there will be another payment before the second semester, approximately half of this sum. But I’m expecting for you to continue helping Miss Duval at the hospital which will significantly facilitate both her and Professor Slughorn’s work. Would you like to conclude a contract for this school year?”  


“Sure,” Jean agrees enthusiastically. “It’s a great opportunity to practice, while I’m… Besides, a couple more galleons wouldn’t hurt.”  


Dumbledore smiles a little sadly, showing his opinion regarding a negligibly small sum the Board of Governors agreed to pay for Poppy’s assistant’s work. Malfoy’s smile is scoffing. “ _Well, of course, it’s terribly funny, when someone’s trying to live, not counting on their family’s money,_ ” the girl miffs. “ _If you got caught in such a situation, you wouldn’t even make it for a week without your silk robes and… and… and whatever else you need for happiness, ferret! But no, ferret is another story. On the other hand, like father, like son…_ ” She meets his smirk with icy contempt. It fades instantly. Malfoy frowns and fidgets in his chair.  


“Professor Dumbledore, have you signed my paper, sir?” He asks Headmaster, trying to contain his discontent.  


“Just a second, Mr. Malfoy, I have one more errand for you. A request, more specifically. Miss Knightley, as long as I understand, you’re going to head to the Diagon Alley now?”  


“Yes, sir, as soon as you sign this request. This is a list of ingredients which are required in my lab. I can’t keep ravaging Professor Slughorn’s stores, besides he doesn’t have some things, since some of the potions Poppy and I…” she glances at Malfoy, “Miss Duval and I need aren’t a part of the school’s curriculum. I could buy everything on the list today and pay with my money, and then…”  


“No need for such difficulties,” Dumbledore says, signing the parchment. “You’re going to purchase the ingredients in the Apothecary at the Diagon Alley, right? Then you can just order everything you need, and the expenses will be put on the Board of Governors’ account. That’s how Professor Slughorn does, when he needs to restock his school supplies. And Mr. Malfoy will confirm that you have the right to make requests on behalf of the school…”  


“What?!” Malfoy jumps in his chair, breaking his icy stamina for a moment. “Excuse me, sir, what are you talking about?”  


Jean groans silently, being sure that Headmaster has nothing good on his mind at all. And Dumbledore, certainly, doesn’t fail her. “That’s my little request to you, Mr. Malfoy. I’d like you to accompany Miss Knightley to the Diagon Alley.”  


“But I…” Jean tries to protest, but Headmaster stops her with a reassuring motion.  


“There are several reasons at once for it, the most important of which is that you need to reach London somehow. We should have gotten the permission to open the fireplace in advance, and you’re going to waste too much time riding the Knight Bus…”  


“I can get outside the Hogsmeade’s bounds by foot and Disapparate from there,” Jean offers.  


Dumbledore shakes his head. “Hogsmeade’s bounds are charmed, you won’t get to the barrier’s end. Besides, do you have a license…?”  


“Yes, I’m seventeen already,” she interrupts Headmaster. “My birthday is in September.”  


“ _To be honest, I’m turning twenty this year. Ha-ha, ferret, I’m older than you this time!_ ”  


“That’s good,” Dumbledore answers patiently, “but I meant, didn’t your Apparition license stay… with all the other documents?”  


“ _Damn. That was stupid._ ”  


“Yes, it’s true,” Jean confesses gloomily. “What should I do? Send an owl to the Ministry with a request to open a fireplace?”  


“That’s excatly what I’m talking about. You can reach London together with Mr. Malfoy. You have a Portkey, as usual?” He addresses Malfoy, whose disgruntled face gets longer and longer.  


“Yes, **to Malfoy Manor** ,” he answers forcefully, taking his parchment out of the Headmaster’s hands.  


“You could open a fireplace to the Leaky Cauldron for Miss Knightley from there, but I would prefer if you accompany her today. Someone has to affirm her identity at the Gringotts, adjust the issue of settlement for the Apothecary’s order, help her hand over a request to restore her Apparition license to the Ministry, and simply show her around…”  


“Thank you, but I’m a little familiar with magical London already,” Jean tries to interfere again. “And I’m not that helpless…”  


“Besides,” Dumbledore continues serenely, nibbling at his beard, “it’s not safe for a young girl to go outside at night alone.”  


“At night?” Jean skeptically glances at the midday sun, shining through the Headmaster’s Office window, and Malfoy snorts under his breath.  


“Your errands will definitely take a long time,” Dumbledore explains in the voice of solemn promise. “That’s why there’s a point for you to come back to the castle on Hogwarts Express, and it departs the station at ten in the evening,” he holds out Jean’s train ticket, her list of the ingredients and the checklist of textbooks for the seventh year to her. “So, did I convince you that your help is actually needed?”  


He addresses his question to Malfoy, who, glancing sideways to the girl, answers after a long pause. “Yes, sir.”  


“In that case, hurry up,” Headmaster commands, not waiting till Jean thinks of new objections, and literally jostles both of them away from his office.  



	10. Chapter 10

Jean is walking down the road to the Hogwarts’ gates on slightly irritated Malfoy’s heels, composing a quite disrespectful speech, addressed to Dumbledore, in her mind. Why couldn’t he warn her in advance about the difficulties of fireplaces? Moreover, she’s sure that if Headmaster wanted, he could have opened the fireplace for her without coordinating this issue with the Ministry. Or he could coordinate it in advance. Just like the authorization, signed by Dumbledore, is enough for the Gringotts goblins, as well as for the Apothecary’s keeper, to know that Jean **actually** is his school’s student. Or any other prefect could have helped her, since there’s plenty of them! Why does it have to be Malfoy, to whom she already gave a cause for suspicions? And whom she’s so cunningly avoided for the whole month, while there were exams at Hogwarts… The examinations’ schedule was arranged with due regard to the priority of assessment tests, naturally. So, the usual transferring exams were randomly squeezed in among O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. Since they were passed by small groups, Jean attached herself to Gryffindors, almost never crossing paths with members of other Houses. The entire sixth year only had History of Magic together, but, since the exam was in written form, it wasn’t very hard for Jean to get lost in the auditorium without attracting too much attention to herself. And now this peacock is here! She will have to spend the whole day in his company, listening to arrogant comments and insults…  


“Here,” Malfoy notes curtly, taking a silver Portkey out of his pocket. “We can go from here.”  


“For which time is it charmed?”  


“For none,” Malfoy grumbles. "Well, are you going to London or what?”  


Jean reaches out with her hand and touches the Portkey, scraping his fingers in doing that.  


“Home,” Malfoy pronounces distinctively, activating the Portkey which instantly brings them right to the gates of Malfoy Manor.  


“Wow, it’s voice-activated, right?” Jean can’t hold her admiration. All the considerations of ‘this is Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake’ retract at the sight of such wonder. “And it’s reusable, of course?”  


“Well, duh,” he answers indifferently, opening a small door left to the gates with a key.  


Jean examines the garden curiously. It doesn’t look the way it did that spring, when Fenrir Greyback’s brigade dragged them here as prisoners. “ _It seems that we were standing tied here, in the middle of this wonderful bed of tiger lilies. Then Narcissa came, and we were dragged down these stairs, and then…_ ” But no, terrible memories don’t flood her. On the contrary, the sight of the sun-drenched blooming garden somehow reconciles the girl with the shadows of the ‘past’, as if persuading her that nothing happened yet, that Dobby’s not killed yet… “ _Speaking of Dobby! He must still be working here!_ ”  


“I need to warn my father,” Malfoy breaks her musing. “And give me your Apothecary list, I’ll show him.”  


She silently holds out the parchment for him, and Malfoy disappears inside the house. Jean would naturally refuse, if it crossed his mind to invite her inside, but still, such disregard is unpleasant. Preparing to wait, she sits right on the stairs, leaning his back to one of the white columns, supporting the canopy above the entrance, and closes her eyes. The air around her silently buzzes with heat, familiar sounds and smells surround her on all sides, and it even starts to feel as if she simply dozed off in the Burrow’s garden. She’ll open her eyes now and see Ginny, who was sent to announce dinner. And Fred will be sitting at the table with everybody, and Bill will be the way he was before he met Greyback, and Harry won’t have this horrible gray strand of hair which is as famous as the scar it covers now… Jean clenches her fists and bites her lip, returning back to reality, prohibiting herself to dream of anything like it. “ _It’s enough that everyone’s still alive yet. And someone isn’t even born…_ ”  


“Well, where to now?” Malfoy asks, appearing soundlessly from behind the column. Jean shivers a little and opens her eyes. Colorful sun stains start to dance inside them at once. Annoyed with the loss of control over the situation, she unaffectionately looks at the Slytherin from the bottom upwards, without getting up from the stairs and hoping to linger until the vertigo stops.  


“Tell me, Malfoy, is it necessary to sneak up on people from behind?”  


Ungracious tone is aimed specifically to provoke a longer discussion and maybe even force Malfoy to refuse the promise he gave to Dumbledore. In fact, Jean realizes very well that she’s worthless as a future Auror, if some pathetic mama’s boy catches her off balance for a third time now. Even being an adult and with all his Death Eater cronies, he couldn’t deal with a bunch of fifth-years, he’s much less of a worthy rival now. But… she should, perhaps, learn this soundless pace…  


“You can call me Lucius,” he permits arrogantly, ignoring the question.  


“I don’t like your name,” Jean declares obnoxiously, watching with delight how his mask of high society member is washed out with a wave of irritation.  


“So, you like my surname then?” he snorts, unexpectedly dropping down on the stairs beside her.  


“ _There’s definitely something about inadmissibility of such vulgar behavior written in the Malfoys code! Malfoys should sit in the eighteenth-century chairs that belonged to no one less than the Sun King and example majestic dignity. Ferret would rather hang himself than do something like this…_ ”  


“I like your surname even less,” she starts to enjoy the possibility to badmouth Malfoy unpunished. Apparently, aristocratic upbringing doesn’t let him to retaliate to an unfamiliar girl, so he’s still holding himself and tolerates her provocations. “But it’s more habitually for me.” “ _Oh crap, that was uncalled for!_ ” “I’m used to only call my friends by names,” she adds, correcting her mishap. “So…”  


“… so, I can call you Knightley, did I understand correctly?” Malfoy asks acidly and, not waiting for an answer, continues. “So, where are we going now?”  


Jean closes her eyes for a moment, focusing, and then gets up forthright, leaning on the column to not lose her balance. Healer Weiss knew what she’s talking about, when she advised her to dedicate the entire summer to physical exercises in the open air, but the girl doesn’t follow her recommendation too diligently. And even though Alice and Fabs were constantly trying to drag her outside with them, Jean preferred to study at the library, in order to not catch the castle’s inhabitants’ eyes too much. She doesn’t want at all to answer questions, why she had to pass transferring exams instead of simply bringing documents from her previous school, later. She tried to not make too many friends for that matter. Future classmates are enough. And now she has to deal with unpleasant consequences of a couple of months spent almost uninterruptedly within four walls: first pouring over textbooks, then working in the lab. First thirty minutes under direct sunlight cause a nasty light-headedness which she has to defeat by any means.  


“Gringotts,” she answers steadily.  


Malfoy gets up as well and looks at her questioningly.  


“So, what are you waiting for, Knigthley?” He holds out his hand to her, and Jean shivers nervously.  


“Are we going to Apparate there? Why not use a fireplace?”  


She likes being the led one in the Side-Along Apparition even less than flying on broomsticks. It’s one thing to trust Harry or Ron, they had to Apparate together a couple of times now, but Malfoy! “ _If Dumbledore didn’t tell him that I don’t have a license, I could take a risk and Disapparate on my own. Maybe they wouldn’t catch me. Although who knows, what methods to monitor offenders they have now…_ ”  


“I hate the Floo Network,” Malfoy answers to her great astonishment. Using the Floo Powder is one of the most traditional means of transport, the most suitable for a member of a pure-blood family.  


Jean remembers very well, how, during her sixth year, she accidentally went out of the Slytherin fireplace, when the Ministry connected Hogwarts to the Floo Network to return students back to school after Christmas holidays. More specifically, she fell out right under sullen Snape’s feet, who, by surprise, even offered his hand to help her get up, but instantly pulled his usual grimace of disgust and took a few points from Gryffindor. And Draco, sitting at his Head of House’s office, didn’t miss an opportunity to go over the fact that Mudbloods are only worth to wipe out public fireplaces of the magical world with their clothes. He himself looked so immaculately that dirty-faced and disheveled Hermione was at a loss of what to answer and tried to get rid of this humiliating episode as soon as possible. Just like she was trying not to pay attention to hundreds of other insults she had to listen, while she was studying beside Malfoy. Who would have thought that the ferret’s father will willingly confess that he doesn’t consider this mean of transportation the most natural and comfortable one!  


Suppressing an unintentional sigh and trying to keep her face calm, Jean takes his hand and allows herself to be pulled closer. “ _To trust and to relax,_ ” two main principles of Side-Along Apparition are running through her head. None of them seem feasible at the moment. “ _I should imagine it’s Ron._ ” She closes her eyes, feeling his body’s warmth behind her back, and clenches her fists, so that her nails sink in her palms. Jean relaxes her hands instantly: being distracted by her own feelings, when she’s being led, means to lethally endanger both her and Malfoy. “ _Why are you acting like a child?!_ ” Her inner voice tries to reason with her again. “ _Could you forget about your prejudices for a couple of seconds?!_ ”  


“Are you ready?!” A calm voice sounds above her ear.  


“No,” she confesses helplessly. But it’s better to render herself stupid than to splinch. “I… I can’t… Maybe you could open the fireplace for me, and Apparate yourself? We’ll meet at the place, huh?” Now, when she has to let some pleading notes to her voice, she’s cursing her original decision to act as impolite as possible during her forced stay in the Slytherin’s presence. What will she do if he simply kicks her out of the Malfoy Manor?  


But Malfoy doesn’t let Jean go. On the contrary, he holds her with his left arm, pulling her even closer.  


“Shhh, Knightley, there’s no need to be so nervous. We’ll do it easily, don’t you doubt,” the fact that she doesn’t see his face helps a lot, despite that the familiar drawling intonations make it clear to whom this quiet hypnotizing voice belongs. “Just breathe. In… out… in… Like that, very good. Don’t open your eyes. Now, on my word, we’ll go down the pathway together, starting with our left feet. Come on: breathe... left…right…left…”  


“Wow!” Jean is surprised. She’s taking her fourth step on the Diagon Alley’s pavement already. That’s the way the Academy students are taught to Apparate muggles and children if needed. “Where did Malfoy learn this technique?”  


“You okay?” He asks, letting her go instantly and stepping back. Neither his face, nor voice express genuine worry, so Jean sees fit to ignore his question, and Malfoy doesn’t press further. “Gringotts is right in front of you.”  


***  


One hour later Jean is ready to thank Dumbledore for forcing Malfoy into escorting her, since, apparently, he has an inherent knack to settle all kinds of financial issues. She can’t imagine now how she would manage to deal with a hard-nosed goblin, who demanded that she fills in a gazillion of some stupid documents, on her own. Malfoy resolved this problem in one movement of his thin eyebrow coupled with a demonstration of a family ring. The ring, in Jean’s understanding, certifies his right to act on behalf of the Board of Governors at the moment and is the only reason his guarantee is enough to confirm her identity. But even after Malfoy’s interference, getting the scholarship money required to make a ton of formalities. As if the paycheck, signed by Dumbledore and members of the Board of Governors, is not enough. Jean starts to understand, why the Weasleys prefer to get along with their own scanty money.  


“Where to now?” Malfoy asks in a plain voice, when she gets out of the bank’s cart by herself, ignoring a hand, stretched her way. He chooses this detachedly polite line of behavior in general: he speaks only on business, without a shadow of emotions in his voice, not showing he’s somehow affected by her open hostility. For a moment Jean even feels embarrassed: **this** Malfoy didn’t do anything yet, even though he, most likely, already is the bastard, who… No, considering his future ‘merits’, one could say that her treatment of him is, on the contrary, too amiable.  


“Apothecary,” Jean commands, deciding to finish her official duties first and then get on with personal affairs.  


The Apothecary is semi-dark and cool, which seems to be a genuine blessing after a sizzler the August heat turned the Diagon Alley into. Jean leans to a tall counter in relief and swings a silver bell, hanging right above her head. A melodic sound rings out, and half a minute later a tall man with deep bald patches appears from the backdoor. Greeting visitors dryly, he retreats to the presented list at once and disappears behind the door once again. While she’s waiting, Jean has time to examine the contents of both shop-windows a few times and starts to regret the Apothecary’s owner didn’t arrange chairs for visitors. She’s almost ready to transfigure something, not paying any more attention to the Snape’s voice in her head, saying that “one should create as little magical fluctuations as possible in the presence of complicated and sensitive potions, especially if those fluctuations cause redistribution of the matter”, but at that moment the owner comes back, levitating a large metal container in front of him.  


“Check, if everything’s correct, and write down the delivery address, Miss,” he asks, handing her a half-filled order-form.  


Jean scans it: the Apothecary has all the ingredients she listed, except for the bark of South American xiphophyll and the claw of false thornwing, which she will now have to order somewhere else…  


“Wait a second… delivery? What delivery? I was going to…”  


“It’s written here,” the man shrugs and dabs the list with his finger. The bottom of the paper has a note, made with unfamiliar hand: 'Approximately 50 galleons, including delivery.'  


“Fifty galleons?!” Jean exclaims despite herself. “Where did you get this sum?”  


“In fact, it’s forty-eight galleons nineteen knuts,” the owner specifies.  


“Don’t worry so much, Knightley,” Malfoy, who wasn’t participating in the conversation thus far, comes to the counter, emanating annoying self-confidence. “I let my father to authorize your request, and he tripled the quantity of ingredients. You won’t have the time to go to London and restock during the school semester. And this quantity will last long. The delivery will also be payed for from the Governors’ fund. Or would you prefer to roam around with this box all day and carry it from the station to the castle later?”  


The girl shakes her head and leans over the form, writing in the address.  


“How would you like to pay, sir?” the owner asks Malfoy.  


“With cash. Could you also make a copy of the order-form for the Board of Governors, please? Knightley!” Jean looks at him questioningly. “Give your copy to Headmaster once you get the order. After you’re officially appointed, you will keep all the documents safe and report to the Governors yourself. Clear?”  


She nods uncertainly, takes the order from the owner’s hands and goes outside, not waiting for Malfoy to pay. Her eyes, accustomed to the Apothecary’s semi-darkness, immediately begin to water in the bright light, and the red-hot pavement emanates a literally tangible wave of heat. Jean instantly feels sick, then there’s ringing in her ears, foreboding the faint. She crouches, leaning her back on the Apothecary’s wall, and shuts her eyes, waiting out the faintness. A tip of a wand bumps into her forehead at that moment, and Malfoy murmurs some spell, after which a magic coolness spreads through her entire body and her head clears eminently.  


“Better?” She opens her eyes, sees an offered hand and this time takes it to help herself get up. “It’s about time we eat something,” Malfoy continues cheerfully and heads to Florean Fortescue’s Parlour, holding her by the elbow lightly.  


Sinking into a rattan chair under a broad sunshade, Jean almost immediately feels much better.  


“A useful spell,” she admits, considering it will count for a ‘thank you’.  


Malfoy shrugs. “I’ve been taught it this summer. A few people of our party also didn’t endure heat too well.”  


Jean simply nods, not knowing what else to say. She absolutely doesn’t want to thank Malfoy, and the lingering pause start to press.  


“Have you been studying at Durmstrang before?” He asks all of a sudden.  


“What makes you think so?” Jean can’t hold her astonishment.  


“Well, I know a few guys from there,” Malfoy drawls uncertainly. “You remind me of them a little.”  


“ _Remind how exactly?_ ” Jean is about to ask, but she goes with a negative shake of her head.  


“No, I’m from Canada. The Academy of the Maple Leaf.”  


“Wow, you don’t have an accent at all…”  


“ _Yeaaah, I completely forgot about the accent. It will be unnatural now, if I start to feign it. Dumbledore was right: it’s absolutely impossible to keep track of it all at once._ ”  


“I did have a slight one. We moved to Canada only six years ago, right before I went to school. And I’ve spent the last six months in Britain, so I unlearnt it easily…”  


Jean is very happy, when Florean’s assistant appears, bringing their ice-creams and cold fruit tea. Malfoy devotes some time to his order, but once he’s finished, he stares at her with his icy eyes again and continues the interrogation. “What about your parents, did they stay in Canada?”  


“Nno. I don’t have any.”  


“ _Mommy, daddy, I’m so sorry, it’s horrible, but otherwise it won’t hold water._ ”  


“They died half a year ago,” she lowers her head, hiding her eyes in hope it will look as a display of grief.  


She doesn’t know, if Malfoy buys it, but, at least, he professes some condolence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… Do you have some family left in Britain?”  


“No, there’s no one else here or in Canada” the girl shakes her head, beginning to enjoy her act. It goes quite smoothly, apparently. “But, at least, I’m not in a foreign country now. And Professor Dumbledore agreed to give me a temporary accommodation and a job, until I’m finishing my studies, so…”  


“I see. I get it you’re making potions for the Hospital Wing now?” Malfoy continues a small talk.  


“ _What does he want from me?”_ Jean panics. “ _Is he already suspecting something?!_ ”  


She answers with a simple nod, hoping that Malfoy will be bored soon with leading a one-sided conversation. No such luck. He simply leans back in his chair cozily, twisting his glass of tea with his long fingers.  


“Did you already make up your mind about the House you want to get in?”  


“ _That’s a curious question, Malfoy!_ ” In fact, Jean is often thinking about it recently. If, at the beginning of her stay at Hogwarts, she never had a single doubt about getting sorted into Gryffindor, then later this opinion of her changed more than once. As if Fabian and the Longbottoms aren’t enough, during exams Jean had to meet three more future victims of the Death Eaters. Slender, big-eyed Marlene McKinnon and stocky Benjamin Fenwick, Frank’s classmates, and good-natured giggler Dorcas Meadowes, who’s studying with Alice, are familiar to Jean thanks to Alastor Moody’s photo that Harry has often showed her and Ron. After Sirius’s death he got a fixed idea that he simply **has** to remember all members of the Order by sight, even if he has never seen them alive. He spent quite a lot of time, examining the picture and shaking out of the older generation of the Order’s members the memories about their fellows, depicted on the photo. Jean understood his gust and has been obediently listening to stories about people, who were long dead. But seeing them now, young, full of hopes and plans for the future, is too much for her. And there will be a new ‘draft’ of the Order members too, made of those who are now studying in junior years or will go to Hogwarts soon. The planting of the Whomping Willow which she was observing in the end of July confirmed the accuracy of her estimation: the four Marauders will be among the Gryffindor first years this September. And she can’t imagine herself sitting in the common room next to Sirius, Remus and Harry’s parents or eating at the same table as Peter Pettigrew. For some time, she tended to think that she’d be better in Ravenclaw or even Hufflepuff, farther from the eternal rivalry among the Houses, so she could devote all of her time to studying and cross way with future members of the Order and those, who will become their murderers, as little as possible. And sometimes an idea crossed her mind that being sorted to Slytherin will let her know for sure whom Voldemort enlisted. Even if she can’t use this knowledge now, not having the right to interfere with a course of events, but, at least, later, when she’ll be back in her time, she will know exactly who supported the Death Eaters, who accepted the Mark. She could even testify upon a trial… But then she wants to find herself surrounded by friends the most, even if their faces will remind her that she can’t save any of them from their fates every day…  


“I don’t care,” she finally answers. “I’ve been told a little about your Houses and the Sorting. As I understood, students can’t decide where they’re sorted to?”  


“ _I bet, Malfoy, the Hat sent you to Slytherin without a single second of hesitation. So how would you know that everyone is free to choose their own way?_ ”  


He shrugs again. “But you still have some preferences, right? You don’t know which House you want to be in?”  


“I don’t care,” she repeats annoyed. “Listen, Malfoy, I have a couple of other things to do today. How about we continue our tour? Or, if you want, you can sit here, while I go buy everything for school on my own. Or you can even head home, I’ll manage it by myself perfectly from now.”  


Malfoy frowns and gets up from his chair. “I don’t think so. I promised Dumbledore to get you on the Hogwarts Express, and I will have to do it. If you aren’t going to faint now, we can go shopping: I also need to buy textbooks, quills and everything else.”  


“Books first?” She involuntarily points her head towards Flourish and Blotts, but Malfoy, luckily, doesn’t notice it.  


“There,” he waves his hand, repeating her movement, and heads to the bookstore. Jean follows him, unrolling the list of the textbooks required in process.  


***  


Lucius walks back and forth along Madam Malkin’s shop-windows, waiting for Knightley. He himself orders his robes at the family’s tailor, who lives in France. The old Lautier, even though he strikes as a complete crock, still has no match in terms of dressmaking. Father has noticed in irritation on multiple occasions that, for some reason, any artistic talent is rare among wizards and that once Lautier departs from this life Malfoys will have to either lower their standards, or to go to muggle tailors. Lucius absolutely hates both options, and he genuinely wishes the old master many long and fruitful years of life.  


He and Knightley have already purchased all the school supplies, and now Lucius wonders how they can spend six remaining hours until the train’s departure. He doesn’t want to invite this chuff to the Malfoy Manor, although the thought of another Side-Along Apparition involuntarily causes a dreamy smile to appear on his face. Though he decisively erases it right away. The girl is behaving in such an obstinate and independent way that any opportunity to force her into obeying seems alluring. He understands very well that, if it wasn’t for the safety rules, she would never let herself to be led, and that’s the exact reason why the close warmth of her submissive body now comes upon as something… pleasant. Besides, there’s another explanation to it. Not having enough time to recover from the examinational stress, Lucius headed to his family in Reims, where he was constantly surrounded by the loving crowd of his elderly aunties, who tried to control his every move. Then he accepted Bella’s invitation and found himself locked at the villa in an extremely pleasant, but predominantly male, company. Not counting Bella herself, whom he crossed out of the list of women and rendered to the ‘pals’ category long time ago for his own safety, and absolutely unattractive Alecto Carrow, of course. So, his reaction on the proximity of the first girl he met after such summer isn’t much of a surprise. Another thing is that her explicit hostility killed any mood instantly.  


“ _Maybe we have some kind of blood feud?”_ He thinks, sorting through his family’s history in his head. No conflicts with Knightleys are registered there, but it doesn’t mean anything. At least one has to know her mother’s maiden name, maybe she has some Weasleys or Gamps in her family. But he fails to gently involve the girl in the conversation about her family roots: she actually cuts off any attempt to talk. And you can’t say that she’s naturally unsociable, judging by what he saw during exams, when she was constantly hanging around the company of Gryffs. She was talking to them, laughing even. Lucius saw it firsthand. So, it has to be him. “ _Moreover, it started from the first meeting,_ ” he remembers suddenly, “ _when she didn’t even know my name. It can’t be blood feud then. Maybe it’s hatred at first sight? Cause I didn’t do anything particular to her. Well, maybe I didn’t meet her too kindly, I thought she’s a boy for a moment… It’s not the reason to dart murderous glares and shake nervously with a single thought of Side-Along Apparition! By the way, the Apparition…_ ” he reaches the corner of the shop and turns back. “ _We also have to go to the Ministry to resolve the issue of her license. Not that she’s going to need it any time soon, but since Headmaster gave such orders, and there’s lots of spare time…_ ”  


At that moment the door bursts open, and a worn-out by fittings Knightley comes out of it, clumsily squeezing a ribboned package under her arm. Irritation makes her face completely unattractive, pale lips, pursed into a thin line, enhance a predatory impression that the girl makes most of the time. Lucius saw her in a happy or at least relaxed mood only from afar, but he’s ready to swear that the Gryffindor gang thinks Knightley is quite nice, judging by how younger Prewett hangs around her. “ _But with me it’s as if she’s turning into a harpy. Even Bella in her most menacing guise never stops to be attractive, at least from the aesthetic point of view. But Knightley’s face goes askew when she sees me, as if she gargled some Skele-Gro…_ ”  


“Do you know…?” She starts suddenly, but then waves her hand right away. “No, of course, you don’t know!”  


“Try me,” Lucius shrugs. He’s not going to miss a chance to finally have a civilized talk, since this time it is her who is asking.  


She grumbles something indistinctive and casts away her eyes instantly.  


“Excuse me?” He asks.  


“Muggle clothes,” the girl repeats loudly and clearly, looking him right in the eyes challengingly. “I need a shop of muggle clothes. Do you know where I can find one nearby?”  


Lucius actually isn’t ready for that. He never had to properly communicate to someone out of his circle. He entered into some kind of long conversations only with those who are well received at the Malfoy Manor or with his Housemates: basically, with those, questioning the pureness of blood of whom isn’t just considered bad manners, but a genuine insult. Such questions are indecent and forbidden in their environs, but Knightley, whose company Dumbledore has forced onto him, could easily turn out to be half-blood or even muggleborn. And even now he doesn’t have a heart to ask her if it’s true.  


“Uuuh… why?” He voices the only wording that crosses his mind and is terrified by the idiocy of the resulting question.  


“To buy clothes,” she snorts, keeping glaring at him. “Wizards are absolutely unable to make normal shoes, and the underwear is…,” her defiant face turns into a genuine sneer, “lingerie is just horrible. Besides, I’m going to go out to the muggle London.”  


“You could transfigure your robes temporarily,” he catches on to her last sentence to somehow distract himself from the raised topic of underwear.  


“I could,” Knightley agrees, throwing back dark forelock from her face. “But I want to buy normal, comfortable clothes, shoes and **underwear**. Do you have any objections on that?”  


Lucius feels himself blushing. “ _It’s because of anger and heat,_ ” he tries to comfort himself, but it doesn’t work well. This insufferable girl managed to throw him off balance and put him in a stupid position, after all. Malfoys never forgive that. “ _It’s **her** , who’s acting indecently, why am I the one who’s embarrassed?!_” At this moment he thinks of Cissy, who would never in her lifetime let herself to overstep boundaries that much, not to mention to get a perverted satisfaction out of it. And Knightley is definitely entertaining herself on his account now, judging by the golden sparkles of genuine amusement, hiding at the bottom of her amber-brown eyes. It doesn’t have anything to do with her mocking grin.  


“So, do you know a place or not?” She asks with a voice in which the scoff genuinely prevails all other intonations, even disdain and irritation temporarily recede into the background.  


“No, I really don’t know such places,” Lucius answers finally.  


“In that case, let’s go to the Leaky Cauldron,” commanding notes in her voice clearly strengthen after a victory she’s just secured.  


She walks confidently towards the exit out of the Diagon Alley, and Lucius falls a couple of steps behind to discretely put cooling charms on his blazing face. “ _One thing on top of another, now we’re also going to spend time in a stinky pub among the scum of magical society…_ ” Entering the bar after his companion, he stops close to the door, hoping she won’t stay here for long.  


Knightley comes to the counter and quietly says something to an elderly barman. He turns around right away and cries loudly in a half-open backdoor. “Tom, that’s for you!”  


“ _Great,_ ” Lucius thinks darkly. “ _We’re also keeping company with the lower class…_ ” He wants to return the feeling of superiority over the insufferable girl very much, so he keeps close tabs on her actions, waiting for a chance to strike back. Knightley, meanwhile, perches on a barstool, not paying any attention to him, and starts to chirp with a tall guy with disheveled head of straw-colored hair, who appears from behind the door. His simple, open features slightly remind Lucius of Macnair. Only his smile is different. Cunning or even… playful. “ _Must be matching the conversation. Our student, apparently, flies off the handle. Or maybe she’s… um… a sporting girl?_ ” This thought opens curious perspectives, but Lucius brushes it away at once. He doesn’t have a reputation of an expert in human souls among his friends for nothing and can say for sure that Knightley definitely **isn’t one of those**. Still, what is now happening in front of him can’t be called anything other than flirting. Digging in her robes’ pockets, the girl lays out a few silver coins on the counter.  


“Maybe, you’ll take two sickles in kisses?” Her question reaches Lucius. “Is the rate the same?”  


The guy behind the counter laughs nervously, as if he’s not completely sure how to react on such an offer. Knightley laughs quietly and fishes a galleon out of her pocket.  


“In that case look for some change. And a glass of water, please,” she turns to Lucius, as if she’s going to ask whether he wants something, but, apparently, she reads the answer on his face and says nothing. Lucius waits for her to turn around again and steps a little closer not to miss a single word. “Tell me, Tom, do you know a shop of muggle clothes somewhere close?”  


Tom reacts absolutely calmly. Apparently, he answered this question many times. “Yes, there’s a little shop in the next building across from the Leaky Cauldron. A married couple owns it, and the husband, by the way, is a muggleborn, so he’s good at what muggles wear and how they do it. They also accept galleons. So, you can easily ask for help there, they’ll make you an outfit and explain…”  


“Thanks, Tom,” the girl interrupts him. “I’ll go there. I have one other thing to ask you for: could you please keep my purchases here, while I’m finishing some business in the city? There are books here, robes and stuff like that, I wouldn’t want to carry it all around…”  


“Of course, Miss Knightley,” Tom’s readiness to render any assistance to the girl is striking.  


“ _Not every house elf looks at his master with such loyalty,_ ” Lucius snorts to himself, wondering how did Knightley deserve this treatment.  


She finishes her water in one gulp and gets up.  


“Well, Malfoy, do you still intent to accompany me?” She asks in an arrogant voice, as if the idea to follow her around belonged to Lucius originally.  


“I do,” he speaks through set teeth, “it’s a pity it’s not too much time until your departure. We won’t manage to visit all the hot spots in London.”  


She doesn’t take this service, pretending not to hear the last sentence. Apparently, her playful mood doesn’t extend on Lucius, as if the sound of his voice alone makes her remember that she can’t relax in his presence. Even the girl’s shoulders seem to petrify when she silently walks past him outside and heads to the shop Tom mentioned.  


Anti-muggle charms, creating an illusion of narrow, barred bean-holes some boring, dusty office might hide behind, are put on the shop-window from outside. The inside is a quite cozy and spacious premise with comfortable little sofas for visitors. Lucius instantly sinks into one with delight and closes his eyes, enjoying his rest in the coolness of the shop. Knightley, carried away by the shop owner, disappears in its depths. After a while, they both emerge by the fitting rooms, loaded with a pile of clothes. Lucius, who had to accompany Cissy in her tour around the Paris shops for multiple times now, when she was visiting his aunties with him last summer, is not unaware of how long the process of choosing may take. That’s why he’s genuinely surprised when Knightley appears from behind the curtain in a couple of minutes. Looks like she knows exactly what she wants to find.  


Not giving it away, Lucius observes through his eyelashes how she meticulously examines her reflection. The girl chooses soft wide-leg pants, a simple cotton T-shirt and a knitted hooded shapeless garment: everything of dark-gray, almost black color which accentuates her unhealthy leanness and paleness even further. But Knightley definitely isn’t too upset about it, paying more attention to some other considerations. She suddenly hunkers, puts her weight from one leg to another, taking out her wand in the same time, then straightens herself in the same blistering revolving movement and finishes the pirouette, standing in a fighting position. Lucius even forgets to pretend he’s drowsing. The little performance, aimed at checking how comfortable it will be to move in new clothes, is so entertaining. “ _To move?! She must be going to duel someone! An absolutely mad girl. She would definitely find common ground with Alecto…_ ” He watches some more how she’s imitating combat stances and lunges and closes his eyes for real, not wishing to be caught prying about. Then the shop owner appears again, and, judging by their quiet conversation, the girl chose a couple more pieces. By the end Lucius hears the word ‘lingerie’ and squeezes his eyes shut even tighter. For some time, it’s silent around, and then someone approaches him and shakes his shoulder tentatively.  


“Malfoy,” Knightley calls, taking her hand away at once, as if she scared herself with this broadness.  


Lucius doesn’t pretend any further and opens his eyes slowly. This time the girl is wearing light blue jeans and a white tank with a monochrome portrait of some shaggy dark-haired guy in a beret with a little star and a caption beneath him ‘HASTA LA VICTORIA SIEMPRE’.  


“What do you want, Knightley?” he asks coldly.  


“If you’re still intending to go with me, then, perhaps, it’s time to transfigure your robes,” she answers calmly, not even a little bit scared of his hostile tone. “Or you could pick some muggle clothing for yourself as well.”  


Lucius meets the last sentence with a sour grimace and gets up, pulling all the contents of his robes’ pockets out. The girl shuffles with her bare feet to the next room from which the lively voice of the owner sounds right away, saying that there’s no boots with high lacing of the required size. When Knightley reappears, she’s wearing soft suede loafers.  


“You’re ready at last?” She meticulously looks over his straight dark pants and a snow-white shirt with wide sleeves and snorts under her breath. “Malfoy, you look like you’re going to a ball. In the eighteenth century. You couldn’t transfigure your clothes into something more modern?”  


“I offered to transfigure **your** robes,” Lucius snorts. “I’m not going to ruin **my** clothes. It’s got various delicate charms put on it which could be harmed by a rougher magic. I think, it will be good enough if I just leave my robes,” he waves in the direction of another package which appeared next to her purchases, “and the rest might look old-fashioned from the point of view of muggles, but it’s very much…”  


"Wait a second!” She amusingly bends her head sideways, examining his clothes and bites her lip. “Is that all real?” Her eyes round. “And you’re wearing an extra layer of clothing in such heat?!”  


Her genuine amazement is even entertaining. Anyway, it’s better than annoyance, dislike or mockery.  


“Knightley, have you never heard of constant cooling charms? Oh, right, you prefer to buy muggle clothes!” He smirks wildly, when another thought strikes his mind. “Ha, are you saying you’re not wearing anything under your robes?” He watches with great delight how the rich blush comes out on her pale face, and specifies innocently in a couple of moments, finishing the embarrassed girl with a calculated move. “Except for underwear, of course.”  


After that, Lucius, feeling himself fully revenged, takes up his robes from the sofa and leaves the shop, deciding to wait for the girl outside.  


***  


“In November?!” Knightley doesn’t even try to cover her disappointment and anger. “But why so long?”  


Lucius barely contains himself from shrugging. He’s using this meaningless and unimpressive gesture too much in her presence anyway.  


“Usual bureaucracy. Besides, they said that, before appointing the date for the exam, they have to send Dumbledore a request which will confirm your identity and age. And it’s only then that you’ll be able to pass the exam again,” he enjoys the sight of her face falling and adds. “You should be thankful you don’t need to come back to Canada to renew your papers there.”  


“I never stopped being a British citizen!” Knightley resents, clutching her hands nervously, as if she’s trying to strangle someone. “And it’s not my fault that in our country the tracking of wizarding children is only made when they’re enrolled at Hogwarts. It’s a stupid, conservative tradition…”  


“It usually works alright,” Lucius, affected by her attacks on the conservatism and traditions of the magical community, interrupts her dryly. Personally, he is absolutely fine with the way things are done. “The birth of a wizard in the Great Britain is automatically fixed in the Hogwarts’s census, then he gets a diploma, an Apparition license, and then, with the registration of a marriage, his name is written in the Ministry’s Big Book of Marriages. All of it is enough to confirm the identity, if needed. But if you were going to school and getting the license in another country, and you’re not married yet, then only Headmaster of Hogwarts can confirm that in 1965 certain Miss Knightley missed the Sorting ceremony. Therefore, the mentioned Miss was born on the Great Britain’s territory and is reliably of age at the moment. By the way,” he glances at the girl sideways, “maybe, you could explain to me how did you manage to leave Canada without any documents?”  


Knightley rewards him with another hostile look.  


“Not that it concerns you in any way, Malfoy, but since… okay, never mind,” she runs her palm over her hair, disheveling it even more. “The thing is, I was also injured in an accident with my parents. And I found myself in Britain a little… rapidly and in an unconscious state.”  


“So, you’ve Apparated here from the across the ocean or what?!” Lucius figures out.  


“Well, yeah, looks like I have,” she clearly feels uncomfortable at the moment, shriveling under his gaze. “I don’t really remember it.”  


That explains a lot: her fright of Apparition, and pale, sickly look, and the fact that she visited St. Mungo’s for some purpose among other things today. Lucius was waiting for her in the Hospital’s fireplace hall, so he doesn’t know what the girl was doing there. But he supposes she had to show up at her Healer’s. Besides, he has noticed that the package with her old robes and shoes, which she was carrying around after the Muggle clothing shop, was left at the reception. Lucius thought then that Knightley does some charity work, visiting the downtrodden, meaning the poor and the sick, and leaves some clothes she doesn’t need anymore for them. But now he understood that, apparently, she was a charity object herself at some time, having borrowed some robes and shoes when it was time to leave the hospital. It became clear also why Dumbledore offered her a job so easily, even though he never did anything of a kind before, despite the fact that many students would be happy to earn a little during summer. Unlike all of them, she **actually** had nowhere else to go.  


“Malfoy,” a hesitant voice tears him away from his musing. Knightley remarkably quietens, having shared her joyless story with him, which is a nice change after an entire day filled with hostility and irritation. “I wouldn’t want for the others to… Could you please…”  


He likes the ‘the others’ part. It’s like he gained some status in her eyes, different from other Hogwarts students. To consolidate the progress, he cooperates. “Sure, Knightley, I’m not going to share your secret with the others,” he casts a quick glance on a big clock, hanging above the Atrium’s lifts. “A few hours are left until your train’s departure, so we could go to the Leaky Cauldron through a fireplace and wait there.”  


“Through a fireplace?” She asks thoughtfully. “Maybe we could walk? The Diagon Alley must not be too far from the Ministry…”  


“ _Am I imagining it, or is it her way to express gratitude?_ ” Lucius asks himself, following Knightley to the phone booth to get outside.  


The sun already set, coloring the sky in the evening colors. Moist Autumn-like wind sends snappish ripples on the Thames’ surface. After the day’s heat they left only one hour ago, having entered the Ministry, Lucius even feels unusually cold. They are slowly walking the quay, not breaking a fragile silence. Knightley is deep in thoughts about something, and he’s trying not to attract her attention, examining her profile discreetly. After the Hospital, she went to a muggle hairdressing salon, where she got her hair cut in a way which strongly reminds his own. Now her hair doesn’t cover her eyes, even though she still occasionally raises her hand reflexively to take the nonexistent locks away from her face. She looks preoccupied and sad. Nothing like the grimaces she was making his way all day. “ _It’s unlikely my company stopped annoying her,_ ” he comes to a conclusion. “ _Apparently it’s just weariness._ ” He could start a conversation to know for sure, but he doesn’t want to risk this unsteady truce. Instead, Lucius goes through all his observations regarding the girl in his mind, starting with her very first appearance at the Hogwarts’s doorsteps, and tries to put them into one clear picture. The story of the Apparition across the Atlantics really explains a lot of it, but not everything. He’s also curious to know why does she act as if she’s constantly expecting an attempt upon her life, how does she know the potion making so well that, judging by some ingredients she has ordered, she is going to make ‘liquid sleep’ and hemostatic potion for the hospital, why, from the moment they’ve met, she’s spouting only rudeness and sneers his way, while she instantly found common ground with the Gryffs…  


One thing is certain: Knightley is a curious specimen to study, so it would be a shame if she turns out not being a pure-blood. “ _Which is highly likely, unfortunately,_ ” Lucius has to acknowledge. Of course, the fact that she is clearly used to muggle clothes alone doesn’t prove anything, even though it speaks a lot. Since the Prewett brothers made it shockingly cool to walk around the school wearing jeans and T-shirts in the free time, you can’t surprise anyone with that. Lucius is sure that when the older Prewett pulled on a muggle piece of clothing for the first time it was an absolutely cognitive demonstration of political predilections. What else could you expect from the representatives of this rotten branch of an ancient and respected family which, in addition, also managed to become related to the blood traitors recently?! It took only a couple of years since their campaign in support of the muggleborns bore its fruit: every year, more and more pure-blood young people in the school abandon a traditional style in favor of a cheaper and more non-dictatorial clothing. Lucius personally isn’t ready to give up his positions. At least, while the old Lautier, who could sew jeans too, if the client wishes so, is still alive. But he understands that his father is right about the non-competitiveness of most of magical tailors and shoemakers. Only truly rich families can afford to go to the masters of high caliber. Macnair, for example, is wearing muggle clothing on holidays for quite a long time now, and he even secretly claims he considers it comfortable. Let alone the girl who comes from the continent where they consciously renounced most of the ancestor’s traditions and who is, in addition, desperate for the money!  


Her friendship with Gryffindors also makes one think. If Knightley gets into the lions’ House, he will have to forget about including her to his ‘collection’, even if her genealogy turns out to be perfect. On the other hand, considering her clear reluctance to speak about her family, he will hardly have the chance to ever make the issue clear… Lucius glances at the girl again, and this time she catches his gaze. For a moment it seems to him that Knightley will start speaking now, but she only shakes her dark forelocks, turning to the river abruptly. The silence, quite comfortable so far, starts to suddenly press like a thundercloud, so Lucius is genuinely glad when they reach the narrow street, leading from the quay to the Leaky Cauldron.  


***  


“It’s time,” Malfoy commands, getting up from the table.  


Relief of finally getting rid of the obligation to accompany Jean is evident on his face. He will soon be back at the Malfoy Manor where, certainly, a more refined dinner, than the one they have been served in the Leaky Cauldron, is expecting him. However, despite his squeamish grimaces, the girl couldn’t miss that he definitely did justice to the pie Tom Jr brought them. At any rate, she had a hard time restraining herself from purring over her portion. The feeling of hunger, which didn’t show up for an entire day, came back when the heat left and reminded her that the light breakfast she ate before going to the lab and some ice cream at Florean’s is not at all enough for her growing organism. Considering the fact that Malfoy is even more of a growing organism, and they’ve spent the day together, Jean doubts very much the sincerity of his grumbling about a bezoar he forgot at home and nameless poor kneazles, winding up at the Leaky Cauldron’s kitchen. Truth be told, this grumbling is even a little… cute. It reminds her of the comments Chris Cheney made, when the girl dragged him to the muggle café close to the Hospital after their shift once. “ _However, there are no cute Malfoys,_ ” Jean resolutely cuts off memories, putting on her new knitted pullover. Its pockets have enough space for her diminished purchases.  


“Ready?” He shivers notably, when chill runs over the room from the door, opened by another visitor.  


“Don’t you want to put your robes back on?” She asks without thinking. The thin shirt clearly doesn’t protect from the evening cold.  


Malfoy shrugs. “We have to go through the King’s Cross, surrounded by muggles. I’ll put it on when we’re at the Platform.”  


“In that case…”  


Jean almost raises her wand to put warming charms, but comes to her senses midway. As if it’s not enough that she absolutely doesn’t care if the ferret gets cold… meaning, the peacock… He will laugh her down if she, due to her eternal habit to look over slobs she’s surrounded with, extend her uncalled-for concern to him too. “ _Besides, his ‘delicate charms’ are there… Wouldn’t want to break something there._ ” Not finishing the sentence, the girl starts walking to the exit from the Leaky Cauldron, but then Malfoy suddenly catches her by the elbow.  


“Where are you going? We can Apparate from here,” he winces, looking at her strained face. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Knightley, what now?! Don’t you really know by now that you can trust me?”  


“Trust you, Malfoy?” She unintentionally chuckles grimly. “Why would I?”  


“Because you’ll miss your train, if we don’t Apparate now,” he answers nonchalantly and even makes a move, as if he’s going to sit back down.  


“Alright, alright,” the girl gives up. “It’s just so unfair…” She murmurs under her breath, stepping towards him and feeling his hands lie down on her shoulders.  


“Mm-hm,” Malfoy says to the top of her head, and the next second they appear with a small pop right in the middle of the sidewalk on Euston Road’s corner in the crowd of pedestrians, rushing somewhere despite the late hour.  


“You think it could be called a successful Apparition?” Jean asks acidly, throwing off his palms.  


“What, can you see fingers pointing at us in fright? Did someone scream and faint? Did somebody even **look** our way?” Not waiting for her answer, he smirks arrogantly and enters the station’s building. “In such case, I think that the secrecy is respected.”  


The girl hastens her pace to catch up with him and walks beside.  


"Do you often practice such ‘secrecy’?”  


“All the time,” his smirk gets wider. “Muggles are so stupid…”  


Suppressing her angry rebuff only at the cost of a gargantuan effort, Jean silently passes him by, runs down the stairs to the platform and only realizes her miss when she stops at the barrier behind which the entrance to the Platfrom 9 3/4 hides. “ _You’re not supposed to know where the Hogwarts Express departs from,_ ” her inner voice comments snidely. “ _And you’re the one talking about secrecy!”_  


But Malfoy, it seems, doesn’t notice how quickly she finds her bearings. He simply nudges her towards the barrier. “Yeah-yeah, this way, that’s right.”  


As soon as they’re on the Platfrom 9 3/4, he unfurls his robes, puts it on and waves his wand, apparently cancelling the much-acclaimed cooling charms. Judging by his content face, he actually wasn’t feeling comfortable before. Jean puts her ticket out of the pocket meanwhile and heads to the carriage’s doors. Stepping on a running-board she lingers a little, but then turns around and tries to render a polite smile. Despite the fact that her insides are still seething with fury his last retort about the muggles’ stupidity caused, the realization that ‘it’s Malfoy’ and you can’t change him makes her leave all reproaches to herself. In the end, his snobbish behavior doesn’t cancel the fact that he was trailing her all day, even if it was only because of Dumbledore’s request.  


“Thanks for your help, Malfoy,” she says distantly and turns away, starting to climb the stairs to the carriage.  


“You’re welcome, Knightley,” he answers to her back. “See you in September.”  


“In September,” she agrees, turning over her shoulder, and disappears in the carriage’s half-darkness.  


“ _How great it is to have plenty of free compartments at my service,_ ” Jean thinks, settling cozily on a soft seat. Feeling herself getting cold, she takes the package with Madam Malkin’s robes out of her pocket, enlarges it back, pulls cold-proof robes out of it and covers her legs with them, putting a simple warming charm. “ _Here, now it’s perfect!_ ” Then her eyes glance to the window. Malfoy is still standing on the platform with his hands in his pockets and is looking at her. When their eyes meet, he slowly raises one hand and waves at her uncertainly. Jean simply puts an open palm to the glass, figuratively denoting a farewell gesture in such a way. The same moment the train starts moving. Malfoy waves one more time, then puts his second hand out. Something flashes in it. The girl has time to see his lips move, and the Portkey takes him to the Malfoy Manor. Jean leans her head back to the seat’s board and closes her eyes. The comforting jiggle of the carriage and rattle of wheels lull her, promising something good ahead. And even though she genuinely doubts this promise can be trusted, the sleep comes to her almost instantly. There are no usual nightmares and horrible forebodings in it. She’s dreaming about crossing the lake in a boat that Hagrid confidently directs, about flickers burning cozily in the castle’s windows, and McGonagall’s voice rings in her ears. “Welcome to Hogwarts! Welcome home, my girl…”  



	11. Chapter 11

“Jean, it’s time!” Poppy steps out on the terrace and approaches the strenuously still girl, sitting in a rattan chair. “The boats are already coming to the castle. The ceremony will start soon.”  


Jean braces her shoulders, keeping herself from shaking, and nods feebly.  


“I’m coming, thank you, Poppy…”  


“What’s wrong?” The nurse pats her shoulder sympathetically. “Maybe I should give you some calming potion?”  


“No, I simply got cold while I was sitting here. Didn’t even notice it,” Jean gets up from the chair and turns to her friend. “You look great!”  


Poppy’s dress robes really are magnificent. Jean even feels a little sting of envy: she will never be able to wear such clothes. Not because she can’t afford them, but simply because she doesn’t know how. Even Ron, being recklessly in love with her and actually thinking she’s attractive, confessed once that she definitely lacks some femininity. Sometimes she wants so much to be like Poppy: fragile and ethereal, to smell of exquisite perfume and flirtatiously wind up her perfect curls on her finger.  


“You look great too,” Poppy returns the compliment and is clearly sincere doing it. “I’ve told you before, and I will repeat it once more: your new haircut suits you much better than that indistinct mess you had before. And stop saying it’s boyish! Here, that’s for you to stop being afraid someone will take you for a boy again…” Elegant carnelian earrings in the shape of a little cluster of mountain ash with a couple of berries glance at the nurse’s palm. “Let it be my gift for your admission to Hogwarts. I noticed your ears are pierced, but you’re not wearing earrings for some reason, so I decided…”  


“Oh!” It’s the only thing Jean can say. She didn’t put earrings on, when she was heading to St. Mungo’s for traineeship, and was ready to let the piercings to heal over in this time: her complex financial situation doesn’t allow to waste her already slender means on jewelry. “Poppy, they are so beautiful!”  


“And they look lovely on you too,” Poppy, happy with the girl’s reaction, hands her a compact mirror. “You know, I will miss our evening tea-parties. Do you really have to move to students’ dormitory?”  


“I’d prefer to stay here myself,” Jean confesses quietly. She doesn’t feel as confident now, as she did back in the beginning of summer, when she accepted Dumbledore’s offer. A nearing perspective of communication with careless youth of any House seems frightening to her now. She simply can’t lie so much. One trip to the Diagon Alley with Malfoy is enough to understand it. Of course, her new friends from Gryffindor are much more tactful, but, in the end, they will also want to know something about her family, her studies in Canada and stuff like that. And then she will have to spin her legend and not get confused in it.  


“But you will visit me,” the nurse says in a stating voice. “Headmaster signed the nomination, so now your duties include the restocking of the hospital’s potions and help in caring for the patients, if it’s required. Your schedule is free, but I hope we’ll see each other often,” she hugs her friend fitfully and encouragingly nudges her to the door. “Go now. You’ll have to walk into the Great Hall with first years. It’s time for me to go too.”  


Jean nervously readjusts her uniform robes and hurries to the Entrance Hall. The clicking of her heels on the gallery’s flagstones remind her how she and Harry were running during their third year, hurrying to return to the ward after they’ve set Sirius free. It was so simple then to come back to your place! And now? What is she doing now? Isn’t it a flagrant interference with the past?  


The Entrance Hall is empty and quiet. “ _Are they already inside? Wouldn’t want to be late to the Sorting ceremony and draw extra attention to myself!_ ” Jean remembers that the first years are waiting in a small room next to the Great Hall. She opens the door and forty pairs of scared eyes stare at her. “ _They’re so small! Incredible… I felt so adult when I came to Hogwarts._ ”  


“Umm, hi, everyone!” Her voice sounds weird in silence that follows her arrival. “Seems that I’m a little late…”  


“Sure, seems you’re ten years late…” Someone from the crowd of ‘kids’ Jean is about to comfort snorts.  


“Sirius!” Someone reproaches the joker in resonant whisper.  


The girl searches for the speaking kids with her eyes, but it’s difficult to separate one top of the head from another in a half-dark room. And it’s also impossible to react with a straight face to this childish insolence. On the contrary, an uncontrollable smile breaks out on her face. The Marauders start to live up to their future reputation since their first day at Hogwarts.  


“Will you take us to the others, ma’am?” A blond girl with funny little braids asks her.  


“No, we’ll wait together for Professor McGonagall to come for us,” Jean answers her. “I’m a student too, only I’m admitted to the seventh year.”  


“To the seeeventh,” the girl drawls respectfully. “My name’s Emmy,” she pompously offers her tiny hand to the new acquaintance.  


“I’m Jean,” the girl introduces herself, accepting the handshake in all seriousness. “How did you like the voyage here?”  


“Oh, it was… great!” Emmy’s face is fervently blazing. “It was my first-time trying Chocolate Frogs and Jelly Snails, and also…”  


She suddenly gets petrified with an open mouth, looking with her wide with fright eyes somewhere behind Jean’s back. The girl turns around and sees Fat Friar flying out of the wall arm-in-arm with Nearly Headless Nick. “ _So, they’re playing this trick with all first-years!_ ”, she realizes, remembering instantly what a dreadful impression she got after her first meeting with the castle’s ghosts. And now little Emmy isn’t the only one who raises a muffled squeak: only a handful of kids don’t show any fear when the translucid couple stops in the middle of the room to examine the audience. Jean notices a tall dark-haired kid among those who are standing straight and don’t try to squeeze their eyes. A red-haired girl is hiding behind his back.  


“Come on, silly, they’re only ghosts,” he says a little louder than necessary, and straightens his puny shoulders fearlessly. It is absolutely clear that even though unceremonious ghosts scare him terribly, he wouldn’t confess it now even under torture. It’s his facial expression, not the features, that give Jean a cue about who he is. “ _And the redhead must be none other than Lily Evans!_ ” Harry reluctantly shared the details of the memories Snape gave him, only informing his friends in general that, apparently, he was friends with Harry’s mom in childhood. Jean never could wrap her head around the story. Until today, when she sees with her own eyes, how tightly he clutches her hand, how much willingness to protect shows in his glance…  


“Good evening, honorable sirs!” She greets both ghosts with a formal bow, silently boiling over the fact that the school management allows a shameful tradition of scaring kids, who have barely stepped into the castle, to exist.  


“Hm, young lady,” Sir Nicholas frowns a little. “May I inquire, to whom have I the honor of speaking?”  


“Jean Knightley, sir,” she introduces herself, watching with a corner of her eye in relief the kids’ faces relax bit by bit.  


“From which House?” Fat Friar asks, flying closer.  


Jean unwittingly shivers: the room isn’t much warm as it is, so the wave of cold, coming from both ghosts, gives her goosebumps.  


“From none yet, sir. I still have the Sorting ahead, of me” despite her fingers starting to freeze, she’s ready to conduct a small talk as long as it takes to let the kids recover themselves. But she doesn’t have to pay such costs, because the door opens up, and an unfailingly dignified McGonagall beckons everyone to follow her.  


Emmy, clutching Jean’s hand tightly, moves first. The others follow them. A halt happens at the bottom of the staircase: Snape stops to bring the House point hourglasses to Lily’s attention. Jean partially hears the familiar ‘Hogwarts: A History’ and turns around to see how the boy, flailing his hands merrily, tells his friend about what he has read. He doesn’t notice that their little tour hinders the others from getting to the stairs. Most first-years are glad to listen about the rivalry among the Houses, but not the pair of the Marauders, who clearly had time to become friends before their arrival to the castle. Now, when they are standing in the lighted hall, Jean recognizes James and Sirius at once. Almost as tall and slim as Snape is, they, unlike him, do not strike as being exhausted and undernourished. They are two self-confident, spirited little boys, and Jean is so very unaccustomed to see such evident leadership manners in a child who reminds her of Harry so much. Of Harry, who was looking at all of the Hogwarts’s wonders openmouthed and with such face as if he’s afraid that all of it is a huge mistake, and he will be sent back to his horrible family any minute now. James Potter doesn’t have this face at all. He stepped into the castle as its owner and instantly decided to establish his superiority once and for all.  


“What is this performance about, Snivellus?” he asks in a drawling, nasty, Malfoyish voice, rudely pushing Snape out of his way with his shoulder. “Are you still campaigning for your snake pit?”  


Lily blushes furiously and turns to him, glaring her eyes in anger.“His name is Severus, you…” not being able to find a proper word, she fitfully grasps pale with rage Snape by the hand and drags him past James up the stairs, where McGonagall is already waiting for them beside the door to the Great Hall.  


Taking advantage of the confusion created, Jean falls behind the others: she absolutely doesn’t want to go to the Hall in the first rows and be in the spotlight. She looks quite weird, not to say comical, surrounded by the first-years and wants to be in plain view as little as possible. But, unfortunately, there’s no way she can avoid the ceremony. McGonagall opens the door, and the fresh addition to Hogwarts heads to the staff table under the burst of applause from all four Houses. The Sorting Hat is already standing on a tall rickety stool. The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall instantly gets the first-years’ attention, and Jean raises her head as well: partly because she doesn’t want to stand out so much from the crowd of newbies, and partly because the memories of her very first day at the castle literally hang on her rear. Everything is the way it was then: she feels a cold heavy lump in her stomach, and the faces of those sitting behind the tables fade into one endless round of strangers among whom she will now have to live. At that moment, the McGonagall’s voice, calling the first in the list Avery for the Sorting, sounds like music to Jean, so familiar and close it seems.  


A stocky, round-faced Avery doesn’t spend even a couple of seconds on the stool, when the Hat cries “SLYTHERIN!”, and he waddles to the spots, freed for the newbies, at his House’s table.  


“Black, Sirius!” McGonagall declares, and Jean has time to notice how James encouragingly pats his pal’s back.  


Sirius is pale and stern. He heads to the stool with solid step, not paying any attention to a few salutatory shouts coming from the Slytherin table. The Hat thinks for quite a long time, most likely it’s trying to sway the stubborn descendant of the noblest House of Black from his impulsive decision. But, of course, it doesn’t work: James Potter’s charm turns out to be too strong and wins over the centuries-old dynastic tradition in the end. The beloved son and heir of Orion and Walburga Black dismounts the stool already a family disgrace and blood traitor. And even though he himself doesn’t recognize the future consequences of his choice, there’s more shock than happiness in his face at the moment.  


While Sirius recovers behind the Gryffindor table, the Hat sorts two boys to Hufflepuff and one girl to Ravenclaw, and then it’s “Evans, Lily”. The girl feebly answers Snape’s handshake and goes to the stool, making an impression of a person ready to faint. But when she sits with her face to the Hall, there’s no panic in her eyes anymore. Her face says more of a ‘come what may’. The Hat doesn’t think too long about Lily, almost instantly exclaiming “GRYFFINDOR!” Snape, watching his friend’s Sorting with his eyes bristling in anxiety, groans under his breath and clutches his hands. The girl dismounts the stool, returns the Hat to McGonagall and heads to the far-left table, turning around to the crowd of first-years above her shoulder. Jean realizes she’s looking for Snape, but he gloomily looks away, not returning her apologetic smile.  


Then a couple more girls go through Sorting and get to Hufflepuff, a serious sturdy kid with eyeglasses gets sorted into Ravenclaw a few minutes of discussion, and then some Gwendoline Lacrimose, a literal copy of Snape, with the same medium length black locks of disheveled hair, as unhealthily pale and gloomy, is predictably sent to Slytherin. McGonagall calls the next name. “Lupin, Remus!”  


Jean interrogatively watches the boy elbow through the thinned crowd of first-years. She couldn’t recognize Remus among the others. Maybe because he was trying, just like herself, not to attract lots of attention to the utmost. Little Lupin has light hair, is small and slim, but his pace is confident, and there’s no confusion or anxiety in his face, only gentle muse and curiosity. The Hat also talks to him for a long time, and when it finally sends him to Gryffindor, Remus calmly gives it back to McGonagall, gets up from the stool, goes to his table and sits beside Sirius.  


“Meadowes, Tavi” follows him. She’s definitely Dorcas’s little sister, since the Gryffindor table welcomes her particularly warmly. Then it’s Mulciber’s turn, who gets sent to Slytherin, and finally Pettigrew steps ahead. He looks like Lupin: thin, small and light-haired as well, but his fussy, jumpy movements vividly remind Jean of his future Animagus form. James Potter follows right behind Peter. This one isn’t second-guessing himself at all. With a confident, dazzling smile he goes to the stool in wide steps, slams the Hat on his head, and when it delivers its verdict, takes his place behind the Gryffindor table on Sirius’ other hand with the same smile, complemented by the triumphant face saying ‘I-knew-it’.  


The first-years’ ranks are thinning out, and at some moment Jean realizes that she still attracts some attention, towering over the rest of the children who, as ill luck would have it, are mostly small. She involuntarily moves closer to Snape, behind whom she manages to hide just a little bit. But soon McGonagall calls him too. Jean takes a closer look to the Gryffindor table: the Marauders, busy with conversation, take some time to notice that their future main school enemy is sorted, but Lily’s eyes are fixed on him. Jean could have sworn that she silently begs the Hat to send her friend to Gryffindor, but, surely, her prayer comes to nought: having barely touched shiny black locks, the Hat yells “SLYTHERIN!”, and the boy comes to the right table.  


Just a little time is left until the end of the Sorting: two more girls go to Slytherin, then blond kids, looking like siblings, but having different surnames, go to Hufflepuff, and “Emmeline Vance” is called after them for Sorting. Jean’s little friend, nervously pulling at her braids, steps ahead. She climbs the stool, and McGonagall puts the Hat on her head. It covers Emmy’s entire face, but one could still see how she nods pompously, listening to the Hat’s oratory. Then it finally yells “GRYFFINDOR”, and Emmy hurries to take her seat between Lily and younger Meadowes. Another boy gets sorted into Ravenclaw after her, and only one first-year is left. He’s scrawny like Pettigrew and even looks a little like him.  


“Wilkes, Robin!” McGonagall announces, and the Hat without further thinking sends the boy to Slytherin, after which it’s Jean’s turn. The girl feels her knees shaking shamefully.  


“ _Pull yourself together!_ ” She orders herself. “ _You’ve already been through it, no big deal…_ ”  


McGonagall folds up her roll, and Headmaster rises. He demurely strokes his beard and addresses the audience. “This year, Hogwarts accepted another student. Please welcome Jean Knightley of the seventh year.”  


McGonagall gently nudges Jean’s back, and she sits on the shaky stool under Gryffindors’ welcoming shouts, focusing on a single thought of how to not fall off it. She finally risks to raise her head and look at the Hall. It’s only now that she sees Fabian and Alice, sitting together and smiling wide. Moving her eyes to the Ravenclaw table she tries to find Andromeda, but feels a slight vertigo, so she has to lower her eyes and grasp the seat. At that moment the Hat is put on her head, and its peculiar dusty smell renews the memories of almost ten years ago.  


“Well-well,” a dry voice rings right above her ear. “It’s not often that I have to deal with adults. Have you really not made up your mind yet, my dear?”  


“Ummm, excuse me, I really don’t know what to say,” she answers whispering. “I was thinking about where I’d like to go, but never quite…”  


“Are you talking about Houses or about your way in life?” The Hat asks business-like. “I’m not discussing it with kids, but **you** have to understand that choosing the House isn’t at all the main decision of your life.”  


“Well, of course. But we kind of have to decide where I’m going to sleep and with whom I will go to classes, as simple as that!” Jean feels that her voice betrays her irritation and nervousness.  


”As simple as that?” The Hat asks mockingly. “In that case, choose.”  


“Hey, that’s not fair!” Jean tries to resent, but the mischievous Hat keeps stubbornly silent, letting the girl know that she will have to make her own choice. Or she’ll sit on the stool until her graduation day.  


Sighing, Jean raises her head again, adjusting the Hat’s wide flaps so that they don’t block her view. This time she happens across Andromeda’s warm friendly smile first thing. She’s sitting very close. Ravenclaw is a tempting option. In the end, the Hat offered to send her there during her first Sorting. Then there’s cheering from the Gryffindor table, and Jean sees Fabs waving at her and almost falling off his seat. She smiles. It would be nice to find herself among Gryffindors. They’re so earnest and cheerful, so… She looks at the Marauders, sitting in one row, and involuntarily shakes her head. “ _It’s too much! I simply can’t, I won’t be able to keep quiet, to lie, to shut myself off, to look at their faces every day and to know, to know, to know…_ ” Jean sharply turns away from Gryffindors, and her gaze instantly falls on the Slytherin table. Or on hunching Snape specifically, who is sitting at the very edge of the bench. He doesn’t talk to anyone and closely examines the pattern of a tablecloth. Then he raises his head and looks around, finding Lily talking vividly with her new friends. “ _And you don’t even know yet, **what exactly** her being sent to Gryffindor will result in,_” Jean empathizes with her future Professor, looking at his darkened face. Harry kept a lot of details back, when he retold them the potion master’s memories, but Jean has her own suspicions. And this old tragedy is now unfolding before her eyes. Snape is losing… has already lost his only friend. The one who could soften him up, dissuade, save him… Not giving herself any more time for hesitations, Jean obeys a sudden impulse and whispers to the Hat. “Let it be Slytherin.”  


Looks like the Hat isn’t surprised at all, even though it snorts significantly.  


“Slytherin? Well, there’s something of it in you. Secretiveness, determination, ambitious plans… But won’t you be too lonely?”  


“Actually, loneliness is exactly what I’m striving for,” Jean objects, feeling the determination leave her. What nonsense, Slytherin?! Did she really say it? Just because she wants to support a reserved, distrustful kid, whose childhood was unhappy and whose school life wasn’t much better?  


But the Hat chooses the exact moment the girl is ready to change her mind to loudly announce “SLYTHERIN!” Unfortunately, Jean’s gaze falls upon the Gryffindor table the same second. Fabian and Alice’s facial expressions are beyond description, and the girl feels a painful dig to her heart. Didn’t she just do as Lily did, betraying her friends’ expectations? “ _You weren’t friends yet,_ ” her inner voice corrects her, sounding a little weary and uncertain. “ _And you won’t become them now…_ ” Shrugging, Jean takes the Hat off her head and hands it to McGonagall. The choice is made, and she has nothing else to do but go to her seat.  


Reaching the Slytherin table, Jean stops beside Snape.  


“Do you mind if I sit here?” She asks in false cheerfulness. The boy raises his gloomy eyes, examines her from head to toes, but finally nods and scoots, making room for her.  


Meanwhile, Dumbledore says the sacred words, and the feast begins. Jean pensively twists the cup of pumpkin juice in her hands, having barely made a sip out of it. Her silent neighbor also can’t sport a good appetite, but nevertheless he is poking around his plate in good faith. To occupy himself with something, perhaps. The girl decides that now is not the best time for conversation and raises her head to look for Gryffindors, when someone’s hand touches her shoulder.  


“My, my, what a surprise, Knightley!” a familiar drawling voice says. Bending to her from behind Snape’s back is Lucius Malfoy himself. He smiles mockingly. “Welcome to Slytherin!”  


Jean closes her eyes and groans under her breath. “ _Merlin, what was I thinking?!_ ”  


***  


Lucius has a load off his mind, when the Hat, after a long thought, yells its decision, and Knightley comes to their table. The sight of the younger Prewett’s long face alone is enough of a reason for a good mood, but, most importantly, she turns out to be a pure-blood after all, there’s no doubt in that now! Knightley survives the best scrutiny one can think of. It would never cross Lucius’s mind earlier that she might get to Slytherin: she is so **different**. But, if you think carefully, the fact that his conclusions proved to be incorrect is even good: it only makes the girl a more interesting subject to study. Knightley herself doesn’t look as pleased. She indifferently sinks into a closest seat available beside some first-year, not even noticing that Lucius sits next to him until he speaks to her. And regrets it instantly.  


Her pained face could be called funny, but Lucius finds it offensive. He does understand that the pureness of her blood doesn’t guarantee a good upbringing at all. Just look at the Prewetts as an example. But her pointed dislike is totally out of line. It’s like **he** is the one who turned up at her school out of nowhere and got sorted to her House! Snorting silently, Lucius turns back to Cissy, who is still unable to recover from her cousin’s escapade and discharges her indignation to anyone who’s ready to listen about ‘ _what a disgrace it is for the entire family_ ’.  


“Come on, Cissy,” he addresses his fiancée, giving her elbow a soothing squeeze. The soft material of her expensive robes is pleasantly tactile, so he can’t hold himself and touches the girl at any occasion. “Whatever Sirius does, it’s your aunt who’s going to deal with it. And I’m more than certain that she will manage to do it just fine. It won’t take a couple of days, and your cousin will be transferred to us.”  


“Nothing of the sort!” Theo, who is sitting across them next to a thoughtful Bella, chips in. “Never was a student transferred to another House.”  


“Never was a Black sorted into Gryffindor,” Narcissa objects, cutting gracefully through her roast meat.  


“Aunt Wal will rather send him to Durmstrang,” Bella enters the conversation. “And it would be the greatest injustice, if that way Siri will manage to do what I couldn’t.”  


Lucius, raising his eyebrow questioningly, leans to Cissy for explanations, and she correctly understands his silent request. “For the entire last week before school Bell was trying to persuade father to send her to Durmstrang to finish her education,” she whispers in his ear, glancing at her sister cautiously. “She kicked up a horrible fuss.”  


Something of a kind was to be expected after Bella got the opportunity to compare her theoretical knowledge with Alecto’s fighting skills. But still, a girl asking to be sent to school where, as the joke has it, they accept students of both sexes, but only boys graduate… The joke certainly has more truth than exaggeration, judging by the very Carrow… “ _Well, well, it touched so many of your raw nerves, my dear!_ ” Lucius sympathizes with the older Black, carefully watching her. She’s gloomily eating bread, nipping off the tiny pieces with her slender fingers. It seems that she’s back in her deep thoughts and doesn’t pay any attention to what’s happening at the table, but Lucius knows it’s not true. Just like himself, Bella prefers to keep the situation in Slytherin under her incessant control, so she’s listening closely to conversations at the Great Hall’s table and directs them into the right course if needed. But nothing interesting is happening around now: Macnair and Greengrass discuss the seventh-year curriculum of the Care of Magical Creatures; Theo keeps comforting Narcissa, assuring her that Sirius’s boyish trick will not redound on his cousins’ reputation in any way; Amanda Prewett, whose family has already gone through the same humiliation, when her second cousin once removed and then both brothers ended in Gryffindor, phlegmatically echoes her, but her thoughts are still on the other end of the table, where Stephan Wellfarber moved to after their latest quarrel; the two first-years, a boy and a girl, sitting opposite each other and looking like reverse twins, identically hunch above their plates, not resolving to attract some attention to themselves… Scanning through his housemates’ faces, Lucius suddenly notices Bella’s eyes flash predatorily and her head jerk up sharply, defiantly glaring at someone sitting to his left, on the very end of the table. He doesn’t doubt a second that no first-year boy can deserve that glare, meaning that…  


“Do you have a problem, Knightley?” Unlike Lucius, Bella remembers all names, even of students from other Houses, on the first try. She could also be a good prefect… if Slughorn would go absolutely off his nut to appoint an unrestrained and prone to meltdowns Black a prefect.  


Lucius bends behind the boy, sitting between him and Knightley, once again to see what threw Bella off balance this time. Knightley’s face is completely white, she’s looking daggers at Bella. Her gaze is icy cold. Not cold as the one she washed Lucius over with again and again, letting him know that she’s not interested in his company. No, this one is a look of deadly fury, or terror, or both at once. No wonder that Bella, who is sensitive to emotional splashes, reacts like this. More specifically, it’s surprising that she didn’t react more sharply. However, knowing Bella, one can expect that the worst is ahead.  


“I have no problems,” Knightley forces out, clenching a glass of juice so much that Lucius starts to fear it will break. The boy next to her attentively shifts his gaze from her to Bella and vice versa, as if he’s expecting them to pull out their wands now.  


“ _That’s right, kid, you’re right on the hexing line, so if something happens…_ ”  


“Knightley,” Lucius calls her quietly, slightly touching her arm. “Knightley!”  


The girl slowly shifts her eyes at him. It seems that she doesn’t quite realize where she is and who’s in front of her. “ _That’s terror, after all,_ ” Lucius concludes, noticing how the juice in her glass shakes, betraying the trembling in her hands. She catches his glance and carefully puts the glass on the table, unclenching her fingers with a visible effort. Everyone, sitting close enough to hear Bella’s question, are already looking at them in curiosity.  


“Knightley, this is Bella Black,” Lucius continues calmly, trying to hypnotize the girl with his eyes, as if he’s talking to a restive and skittish horse. Basically, Knightley reminded him of his father’s favorite bay horse on multiple occasions over the course of them knowing each other. It is the sullenest horse in their stable: she never even accepted a treat out of his hands, not to mention letting to straddle herself. “She’s on the seventh year with us. On her left is Theodora Burke, also a seventh-year. Theo, this is Jean Knightley, and she prefers to be called by her surname.”  


“Hi, Knightley,” Theo reacts obediently. “Welcome to Slytherin. Lucius and I are prefects of the seventh year, so you can come to us if you have any questions.”  


Knightley nods curtly, relaxing her shoulders subtly. Theo definitely doesn’t raise in her these violent emotions. Lucius stares at the girl, sitting to Burke’s left. “And you are…?”  


“My name is Gwen,” the first-year answers in an unexpectedly low voice and courageously looks at him in response. “And you are…?”  


“Lucius Malfoy,” he answers the little smart ass with a laugh. “Welcome.”  


“I’m Severus,” the boy introduces himself, not waiting for a question.  


“Are you siblings?” Theo asks. Surely, she was chatting with her friends throughout the Sorting ceremony. Even Lucius remembers that the kids have different surnames and stick separately.  


“No way!” Gwen and Severus answer in unison. She snickers after that, and he snorts, which, apparently, means an extreme amusement on his part.  


“So, Gwen, Severus and Knightley,” Lucius repeats and moves slightly away from the table to not block other House members, sitting on his right, from the view. “Meet Narcissa Black, the prefect of the sixth year.”  


This time he sees something new on Knightley’s face: she even leans to the front a little to have a better look at Cissy. But there’s nothing frightening in her eyes anymore, only genuine interest. Narcissa answers her with a polite smile. Severus and Gwen retreat to their plates, considering, perhaps, that it’s enough information for them. But Lucius decides to keep introducing Knightley to her classmates.  


“Amanda Prewett is next to Cissy…”  


Another curious look from Knightley, but Mandy answers it only with a wave of her hand and turns back to her conversation with Narcissa. Well, the reaction on Prewett’s surname is easy to understand, considering summer connections of a new Slytherin.  


“And across them are Peneas Greengrass…”  


He also waves his hand, being awarded a short nod.  


“… and Walden Macnair.”  


The girl freezes up again. Wally is looking at her with his distinctive careful squint, and she’s eyeing him wickedly. This reminds Lucius of blood feud once again. The worst part is that Bella is watching their silent duel of looks, and her face is set in a frightening mask which means that the tension reached its last limit. To Lucius’s great relief, Dumbledore signals the end of the feast this moment and orders the prefects to take new students to their dormitories. Knightley is the first one to get up from the table, decisively pushing away her untouched meal.  



	12. Chapter 12

Slughorn is late, which, apparently is not surprising for the Slytherins. Prefects clearly aren’t used to rely on their Head of House: they take the first-years through the stone door, concealed in a wall, which opens at a posh password ‘ _Primus inter pares_ ’, show them the dorms, explain basic rules regarding the curfew and the prefects’ powers, all on their own, but the Head still doesn’t show up. Jean settles on a chair with a tall back in a dark corner close to the fireplace. She'd like nothing better than to get into the fireplace entirely, but it’s possible to exist at her place with warming charms put, and, what's most importantly, the entire nest of snakes is in full view from here, while her back is covered by a true stone wall. After she practically declared a war to her entire House, this last consideration seems very substantial.  


The girl sits, hiding her hand with the wand clutched in it in her robes’ gathers, ready to repel an attack, even though she perfectly understands that it would be more reasonable to put some charms on herself instead, like calming ones, for example. “ _What’s wrong with you?_ ” Her inner voice yells. “ _Why did you have to provoke the fight with Lestrange-who-isn’t-Lestrange-yet in your first evening here? Even not considering that she, evidently, only **will become** a mad sadist and murderer, even if you blame her for future crimes **now** , was it wise to show your hostility so evidently?!_” Jean sighs heavily, acknowledging that after she was stupid enough to get right into the Slytherin vipers’ nest, she has no more right to let her nerves loose and to jump aside from her classmates, no matter what **future** details of their biographies come to her mind every time she sees them. Strictly speaking, it is difficult to even recognize Bellatrix, if it wasn’t for her voice. Hearing that voice so close makes Jean literally shake before she can even think of anything. And it doesn’t help at all that, when she raises her eyes, she sees a young sad girl, who could even be called attractive if she wasn’t… if she wasn’t Bellatrix. Actually, she is attractive: fresh smooth skin, well-groomed shiny hair, expressive dark eyes without a shadow of madness yet. Comparing to the post-Azkaban version of herself, Lestrange actually looks great, but it doesn’t matter. Jean cannot get rid of the image that to this day emerges in her nightmares sometimes: the sardonic husky laugh, the silver dagger held at her neck, some musky perfume, frantically flashing eyes. This image completely overlaps the real Bella Black, no matter how many times Jean says to herself that **that** horrible woman is already killed, and **this one** isn’t dangerous yet.  


Surely, this problem pertains to the personal difficulties category which the girl has to deal with on her own. Even Dumbledore can’t help her here. **Nothing** can help here. She has to deal with the presence at Hogwarts of a good half of Voldemort’s inner circle freely walking around school corridors. She has to get used to sit at the same table with them, spend evenings at the same common room, go to the same classes… And, first of all, she has to immediately stop imagining an executioner’s cap on the light-brown head of Macnair, who sticks in front of her all evening, having cozily settled in the chair beside the fireplace. Most of the seniors, including Malfoy and both Black sisters, take up their residence on two sofas opposite each other and share stories about their summer which, judging by active gesticulation and roars of laughter, was entertaining for many of them. Watching them from afar isn’t hard, especially when she manages to not pay attention to familiar faces. Overall, Jean has to admit it: they look like normal teenagers now, no different from students of any other House, or trainees at the Academy, or interns at St. Mungo’s… If only she could **actually** lose her memory for the duration of this year!  


The girl shifts her eyes again from the group of classmates to Macnair who’s sitting alone. He’s closely watching the fire, lost in thought. Jean stealthily examines his defined profile, wondering how the trick of the light might change a face completely. Only half an hour ago, at the Great Hall, the same face features seemed rough, full of arrogance and contempt. Not that she was radiating amiability herself, when they were introduced to each other… But now, when his eyes are not drilling her with suspicion and challenge, she’s ready to admit that her imagination portrayed Macnair as someone **much more** dreadful and disgusting than he actually is. Just a regular boy. “ _Keep it up,_ ” her inner voice advises in a falsely cheerful tone. “ _Are you an Auror or what?! Is it really such an impossible task: to infiltrate a group of schoolkids?_ ” Actually, it might even turn out to be amusing. Now she knows exactly what that Slytherin arrogance of being a one hundred percent pure-blood House is worth! Shame she can’t make them eat the dust right now: it would raise too many questions and problems, if she admits that the Hat had no problem with sending a muggleborn student to Slytherin…  


The thought of having to lie about the pureness of her blood as well ruins all the fun, Jean instantly feels disgusted in planning an ‘operation’. In the end, there is no need to spy on future Death Eaters: it’s unlikely that they now know something that wasn’t printed in the textbook on the contemporary magical history, published six months after Voldemort’s fall. So, everything she needs is to peacefully live through this year, pretending to be an insider to not raise excessive suspicion.  


Her bitter thoughts are interrupted by Slughorn’s appearance who, judging by the blush and a flicker in his eyes, already managed to celebrate the beginning of new school year with his colleagues. While Slytherins are gathering in the common room to listen to the welcoming speech of the belated Head of House, he eloquently leans to the mantelpiece and turns more lights on, which forces Jean to leave the seat she fancied. But before she has time to duck behind her classmates’ backs, Slughorn notices her.  


“Miss Knightley!” He exclaims with such enthusiasm that there’s no one in the common room who isn’t staring at Jean in curiosity. “I can finally meet my mysterious colleague who have freed me from many wearisome duties! By the way, I remember you passing my exam, yeees,” Slughorn rolls his eyes, depicting his admiration. “You were making a searching potion, am I right?”  


The girl nods reluctantly.  


“Brilliant, simply brilliant! And, most importantly, it was prepared in a record time, if I’m not mistaken.”  


Jean shrugs in discontent, making another attempt to get lost in the crowd. As if a doubtful pleasure of ending up in the limelight of the entire House isn’t enough, she also gets praised for… cheating on the exam… On the other hand, it’s not her fault that in the last few years **in her time** there were a couple of important discoveries in the potion making, and that she learnt how to make the searching potion at the Academy in light of the newest researches. Of course, she wasn’t intending to make a show out of the practical part of the potions’ exam. She didn’t even know she did, until the moment Slughorn dragged two professors from the O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s commission to the lab, and the three of them started to circle her cauldron as hungry cats near a cage of freshly caught fish. It’s only then that Jean, having realized that something isn’t right, made everything possible to discreetly slow down the process, but it didn’t help her to avoid excited inquiries, attraction of a bunch of unnecessary witnesses to the potion’s testing and Slughorn’s pestilent delight he still, apparently, didn’t come out of.  


The emergence of completely sleepy first-years saves Jean from continuation of the awkward scene, and she finally manages to get farther from the Head of House, listening to his speech from another quiet corner the Slytherin common room has plenty of. Looks like privacy is really valued here, and it fits her intentions perfectly.  


Slughorn speaks for nearly ten minutes about how proud Salazar Slytherin would be had he seen the heirs and successors to the traditions he established, and how they all have to live up to them, and so on, and so forth. Jean completely loses any interest in what’s happening by the second minute of the speech and, leaning her head on the soft plush lining of a sofa, closes her eyes wearily. When the Head of House’s voice stopped its even, lulling murmur, and he moves to more concrete subjects, the girl reluctantly returns to vertical position. However, there is nothing to it that the prefects haven’t told yet. Slughorn simply repeats general information regarding the castle’s rules and almost goes out the door, when his gaze falls upon Jean again.  


“Miss Knightley, have you been shown the way to your bedroom?”  


“No, sir,” she has to admit. Indeed, prefects were busy with settling the first-years, and she conversely tried to remind of her existence as little as possible and didn’t seek their assistance.  


Slughorn slightly frowns, discontent with an unexpected delay.  


“Miss Burke!” He calls, stopping on the doorstep. “Take care of Miss Knightley as well. Are there any free places in the seventh-year bedrooms?”  


“Yes, sir, there’s a bed in Bella’s room,” Theo responds hesitantly. She, like everyone else at the table, certainly noticed the fight that almost happened at dinner. Which can’t be said about Slughorn.  


“Well, perfect,” he exclaims, rubbing his plump hands. “Then Miss Black will show the newbie her place. Oh, right, I almost forgot… Sixth and seventh years!” He raises his voice. “Attention! I expect from each of you a list of subjects you intend to study on advanced levels by eleven o’clock tomorrow. Sixth-years must also enclose results of their O.W.L.s to the lists. Have a good night everyone!”  


With these words he finally exits to the corridor, and the stone wall gets back to its place. Confused Jean hardly turns to Theo for explanations, before gloomy Bellatrix appears near them. Ignoring Jean, she addresses the prefect. “What does it mean, Theo? Will the newbie be put in my room?!”  


“Ummm, sorry, Bell, but it looks as she will,” Theo shrugs, looking at Jean sympathetically. “Come on, I’ll show you the room,” she says to the girl and, not waiting for an answer, leads her down one of the narrow corridors, going out of the common room. “Where are your things?”  


“At the Hospital Wing,” Jean answers. “I was living in the guest suite there all summer.”  


“It’s true then?” Theo glances at her curiously. “Do you really make potions for the hospital?”  


“Did Malfoy tell you that?” The girl snorts. What else could one expect from this peacock!  


“Actually, Slughorn did. Just now. Weren’t you listening at all to what he was saying?”  


Jean makes an embarrassed grimace, and a knowing smirk flashes in Theo’s blue eyes, while her lips purse disapprovingly, showing official attitude of the prefect to such carelessness. The resulting combination of the two polar emotions reminds Jean of her own attempts at looking harsh during her time being the prefect. Indeed, ignoring Slughorn is absolutely wrong, especially considering that he will definitely try to drag her to the Slug Club this time too. “ _After all, Slytherin was a **huge** mistake,_” she sighs to herself, entering her future bedroom behind Theo.  


“ _But being a Slytherin definitely has some advantages too,_ ” she thinks in a mix of admiration and envy, once she steps inside. Of course, the dungeons have much more space than the tower, so Jean isn’t much surprised, realizing during the settling of first-years to their bedrooms that rooms in Slytherin are designed for two. But she absolutely isn’t ready to the sight which comes into her view. This room is at least one-and-a-half times larger than the female bedroom at Gryffindor which she, Lavender and Parvati shared with Ginny Weasley and her classmates. Two magnificent beds are also, apparently, wider than standard school sleeping accommodations. Besides them, there’s also a comfortable corner sofa in the room, above which bookshelves tower. The opposite wall has two desks in front of it, and another space for books and writing utensils is organized above them. The room is decorated with blue and silver colors, as if an unknown designer was trying to recreate the underwater world. Or, perhaps, the starry sky?  


“Do you like it?” Theo asks, having already read the answer on the girl’s face. “Bella chose the lining for furniture and the drapery herself. And here,” Theo goes around the right bed and pushes a brow in the stone setting. The wall pulls of to the side, opening another small premise, “is your wardrobe and the place for all kinds of junk in general. You can reach the bathroom from here.”  


Jean follows her, wondering for how many years she has to work at Hogwarts to fill even half of the space lent for clothing. The wardrobe also has a large mirror which reflects the one looking in it in full length. Theo shows the girl how to open the bathroom which is also joint for her and Bellatrix, but has two different entrances. “ _It seems that they don’t accept any doors in general here in Slytherin,_ ” Jean thinks, wondering how she will find the right stone next time, when she won’t have a guide.  


“Do you have any other questions?” Theo asks, when they return to the room. "Alright then, I’m going to go. Yeah, and Knightley,” she turns around at the doorstep, “don’t rush to go to sleep.”  


Jean raises surprised eyes at her, because that is exactly what she was intending to do, right after a long hot shower.  


“Didn’t Lucius warn you?” The girl frowns. “The initiation's tonight!”  


***  


The time is nearing half past twelve, but still nobody comes after her. “ _Maybe they decided to go without me after all?_ ” Jean thinks with secret hope, falling on the bed. She already had time to send Misie to bring her stuff from the Hospital Wing, and once he came back, she hanged her clothes in the wardrobe and put textbooks on the shelves. There’s absolutely nothing else to do, but at the same time she doesn’t want to join the others in the common room. Theo promised that someone will come get her, meaning that she won’t, most likely, manage to wriggle out of stupid Slytherin ceremonies. At least, until they all are in the misperception about her long-standing acquaintance with Malfoy. It looks like she now has some kind of recommendation on his part/.  


Jean learnt something about Slytherins this evening. Their distinctive (and working in her favor) trait is the catastrophic inability to admit their own ignorance. Even if it’s some kind of a trifle, a true Slytherin will never ask anything directly, but rather try to lead their interlocutor to the topic they’re interested in. Which allows Jean to get away with her story time and time again, not lying explicitly. Just like Theo carefully tried to draw out of Jean the degree of her being acquainted with Malfoy, while showing her the wardrobe and bathroom. But the girl replied honestly that since she lived in Britain for a very short amount of time **before** , she didn’t have many opportunities to communicate with anyone here. If Theo was a Gryffindor, she would definitely ask her directly how did they meet each other and for how much time they know each other which would force Jean to give direct answers or to keep silence. In that case, of course, she wouldn’t be taken as one of their own as easily as she did thanks to Malfoy’s careful support. He’s acting as if he’s known her for ages. Sure, nothing hinders him from shattering their classmates’ illusion… “ _I suppose I shouldn’t make him angry,_ ” she thinks, sighing. “ _I’ve got in hot water with Bellatrix as it is…_ ”  


The fact that she will have to live in the same room as Bellatrix is, without any doubt, the most unpleasant discovery since the beginning of the school year. If she had a single thought that she will have to study in the same year as this psycho, she would likely refuse Dumbledore’s offer to visit the classes with other students altogether, not to mention that under no circumstances would she get to Slytherin. But now there’s nothing else to do besides dealing with the facts at hand. Jean comforts herself with the thought that she can always run away to Poppy or spend more time at the library. Or visit Gryffindors… “ _If they still want to see me. And my… housemates surely won’t like it. Merlin, how did I get myself into this!_ ”  


At this moment the stone wall pulls off to the side, and Bella Black herself enters the room. Glancing at her roommate ungraciously, she mumbles something about everyone having already gathered, and pulls a warm cloak out of her wardrobe. Watching her getting dressed, Jean thinks that she the only warm clothes she has are the grey knitted pullover and a winter cape. Neither would work now, so she simply casts more potent warming charms on herself and follows Bellatrix to the corridor, trying to look for some orienting points which will allow her to find the door to her bedroom when she comes back. Unfortunately, no portraits or suits of amour are present, and she really doesn’t want to ask the roommate, walking in front of her. Jean hopes that she will be returning in her company as well, otherwise she will have to spend the night at the common room. “ _If, of course, I’ll manage to find the common room at least,_ ” she smirks crookedly.  


Only students of the sixth and seventh years participate in the initiation ceremony, as Theo have explained to her. Or, rather, the graduates conduct the initiation for the sixth-years, but since Jean is a newbie too, she will only **become familiar** with Slytherin secrets today. The people in the common room are waiting only for her and Bellatrix. Almost all of them are wearing long dark hooded capes which makes Jean sick. It’s hard to get rid of the thought that the ominous shadows, gliding behind each other on the dimly lit corridors of the dungeons, plan something far less innocent than a stupid student ceremony. They leave the castle through the eastern gallery, pass the greenhouses and walk along the lake in line. When they go far enough, one of the Slytherins gestures for everyone to get around.  


“Now everyone has to pair up,” he speaks, and Jean instantly recognizes the distinctive drawling voice. “You can reach the place we’re going to only while holding hands with someone from the seventh year.”  


Malfoy himself, as if to demonstrate his words, raises his hand, clutching tightly the palm of a slim tall witch. “ _This must be Narcissa,_ ” Jean thinks, looking around. She’s searching for Theo, hoping that she will take her under her patronage again, but she’s holding someone else’s hand already.  


“You’re from the seventh year, right?” a male voice rings above her ear. The girl turns around, almost faceplanting in a tall, solid figure, also hidden with a hood. Jean casts _Lumos_ to light up the face of the one speaking and staggers back instantly, suppressing a scream.  


“What’s the matter with you?”  


“Nothing, I’m alright,” she forces out, putting her wand away to the case with shaking hands. It’s better to not know at all who you’re talking to than to see… She involuntarily takes one more step back. “I’m from the seventh year, but I can’t help you. I’m a newbie myself, I'm Knightley.”  


“Oh, right,” the voice answers from the darkness. There’s nothing frightening in it. “My name’s Edward.”  


Two figures approach them.  


“Why are you two standing here?” One of them asks. Jean knows this voice **too** well. That’s why she even hides both hands behind her back childishly, when Bellatrix offers her hand. “Ah, it’s you, Knightley…” She hisses, leaning closer.  


There’s no one worse than Bellatrix, so Jean clutches the hand the second wizard offered her in relief, and Black leads Edward, following the others. This time, Jean decides to not bother herself thinking with whom she’s paired up. It's already enough shock for one night. The guy, walking beside her, doesn’t make any attempts to talk, despite the fact that he definitely can feel her hand shaking. His palm is warm and wide, and it’s really not hard to imagine he's Ron. Yes, let it be Ron. She always feels so calm when she's with him, he would never…  


Her companion clutches her hand harder, and Jean feels crackles in the air, as if feeble electrical discharges go through them. “ _Unplottable charms!_ ” She detects. “ _Wow, how interesting, Slytherins fenced off a place for themselves right on the Hogwarts’s grounds? Shame we never figured out to do that._ ”  


“Walden Macnair gives Jean Knightley his permission to cross the line now and henceforth,” her guide says, and Jean almost pulls out her hand. It looks like he’s ready for such childishness, cause his grip only strengthens. However, she soon recovers herself, allowing to be led through whirls of somebody else’s energies. Macnair’s own thread is red-gold. It twines their hands together for a moment, and the pressure Jean was feeling all this time disappears. It happens so quickly that she remains standing only thanks to Macnair, who still didn’t let go of her palm.  


They’re standing on a high stony shore among tall pines, scraping the covered with a speckling of stars sky with their downy tops. A ritual bonfire is already burning in the middle of a small clearing, and it lights up the faces of Slytherins, standing in semicircle. They take off their hoods and take each other’s hands. Jean has nothing else to do but join them, completing the circle. “ _It’s not **me** fraternizing with them now…_” She thinks absently, watching the flickers fly away, while Malfoy is monotonously saying the words of an ancient ritual. “ _It’s that damned adventuress Knightley, who, apparently, prefers to get into huge messes._ ” Despite her skeptical attitude, she can’t help but appreciate the dignity of the occasion. “ _I wonder if this tradition still existed when we were studying here? Perhaps, the Slytherins are imagining themselves as some kind of romantic brotherhood to this day… Ha, now I’m not surprised at all that when Lestrange and Malfoy lifted hands against me, the one they swore their allegiance to, at the Malfoy Manor, they ran out of luck. Or even earlier than that, at the Ministry…_ ” The most pleasant thing is that she herself was still free from the loyalty obligation then, since she only gave it now. The vow she just made is not an Unbreakable one and doesn’t influence the free will of the one swearing it. But the magical tie, which is established among the participants of the ceremony, punishes the wrongdoer unilaterally and breaks the moment any intended harm is caused. The consequences should not be too hard, but they’re still serious enough not to neglect the vow without excuse. Definitely, the snake House needs something of a kind to not strangle each other in their pit before graduation. Now, at least, she doesn’t have to expect the stab in her back by Bellatrix, for example. “ _Even though it will unlikely help me to sleep peacefully…_ ”  


Malfoy finally finishes incantation, and they’re standing in silence for a couple of moments, still holding hands and feeling the magical stream flow through the outline they form and mix their energies.  


“Now you have to intertwine your Unplottable charms with the common shield, so that this place would know you as its fully legitimate owners,” Malfoy orders, breaking the circle.  


“ _Slytherins,_ ” Jean snorts, being the first to raise her wand. “ _Where do they get such confidence that everyone present knows how to make Unplottable charms? From the fact that everyone happens to have at least one small family estate? If we didn’t study it at the Academy, I’d give myself away now…_ ”  


“Jean Knightley declares this place Unplottable to strangers’ eyes and magic,” she hesitates suddenly, saying the formula, whether the ritual will work if she uses her fake name. But, on the other hand, Macnair brought her here under **this name** , so… “ _Besides, that might explain the fact that I’ve never crossed this line in the future. Surely, I wouldn’t be able to do that, while still being Hermione Granger…_ ”  


Protective charms are one of the most spectacular areas of defensive magic, no wonder Harry likes them so much. He still sees magic with the eyes of a child sometimes. Jean also likes to cast spells that have some visual expression. A blinding pearl-white line stretches out of the tip of her wand, intertwining with the multicolored weave of previously put spells, gleaming around them. Then it runs over waiting hands of the other Slytherins, granting them access through the renewed line of Unplottability. When the line’s light dims, coming up to the brightness of the general pattern, Jean lowers her wand and steps back.  


“Narcissa Black declares this place Unplottable…”  


Watching the ritual from aside is even more interesting than actually doing it. Narcissa’s charms are light-lilac, and when she conjures them, her long hair, illuminated by the same pinkish radiance, shoots upwards with the gust of wind. Jean puts her palm with the others for the trembling magical line to touch it, leaving an invisible mark, branding her once again as one of them, one of the people who are absolute strangers to her in every way.  


“Edward Goyle declares this place…”  


“ _Well, of course, such likeness can’t be for nothing,_ ” she thinks remotely, raising her head to look into the eyes of another nightmare of hers. Now, in the bonfire’s light, this likeness is even more noticeable. It causes her to feel something beyond fear, something that might be compared to a voice strained from screaming. The fear is breaking outwards, but the imperfect human body has exhausted all its resources to express it, so it just burns through inside, leaving only emptiness and ashes, weariness and weakness. Jean tightly squeezes her eyes shut. This whole thing is endlessly stupid, she’s trying to force herself to be reasonable, to be an adult. She knows perfectly that this Bellatrix, this Macnair, this Goyle – especially this Goyle, who isn’t even **that** Goyle – won’t harm her, that they’re just children. Children, for Merlin’s sake! She fought with them when she was fifteen, survived their tortures when she was seventeen, went through that horrible fire which costed her that previous, simple and clear life of hers. She can’t break now. Not now, when they’re just pathetic children, playing their stupid pure-blood games!  


“Knightley?” Theo carefully touches her shoulder. “It’s over, it’s time to return to the castle.”  


Jean opens her eyes again. The bonfire is almost burned out, and there's no one else around her. The stars above her head are clouded, but the already breaking dawn slightly illuminates the sky above the forest. Gray strands of fog trail over the lake’s surface, and Jean shivers from the chill. Her warming charms have long worn off, and she waves her wand conjuring the new ones. The Unplottability line lets her pass with no problem, despite the fact that she literally zoned out in the middle of the ritual. Jean sees Theo’s silhouette about a hundred steps ahead and hurries on to catch up with her. The last thing she wants now is to wander around Slytherin dungeons alone, searching for her room.  



	13. Chapter 13

The first thing Jean sees when she wakes up is a greenish light, bathing the bedroom in an even stream. She rolls on her back to make sure that the light spreads from the ceiling which was perfectly normal only yesterday. “ _Well, of course, it was dark yesterday when we came to the dungeons!_ ” Only now she understands that the ceiling is actually transparent, and the light she sees comes from the rays of sunshine, going through the depth of the lake water.  


“Amazing!” Jean can’t hold herself, gazing after a massive fish which is swimming past the ‘window’.  


A muffled sound on her right makes her turn her head. Bellatrix is laying on her bed, with head reclined upon her hand, and closely looks at her with dark bright eyes.  


“Mm, good morning,” Jean forces out, instantly rolling over to the other side of the bed, and gets up, unflinchingly watching her roommate with alert eyes. She only nods in response. Jean disappears in her wardrobe, considering Bellatrix’s quiescence is a silent permission to occupy the bathroom.  


Everything here looks very different from yesterday in broad daylight. The ceiling is transparent everywhere, lighting up the wardrobe and bathroom enough for other illuminants to be unnecessary. “ _Wow, why was I even thinking that a quarter of Hogwarts’s student body lives in complete darkness?_ ” Jean asks herself, examining the lake’s depths while showering. She likes the Slytherin dormitory more and more. Even though it should be darker here in winter, now she’s happy with everything.  


When she exits to the room, already wearing her uniform robes, Bellatrix heads to her wardrobe. It’s half an hour until breakfast, and Jean wonders, brushing her hair, will she have enough time to dry her hair, since it’s at least five times longer than Jean’s own. “ _Almost like mine was before fire,_ ” she sighs involuntarily, admitting at the same time that it’s much more practical to wear short haircut in cold dungeons. Her hair dries out by the time she’s done brushing it.  


Putting some parchment, no-spill inkstand and a quill in her bag, Jean leaves the bedroom. She slows down a little in the corridor, trying to find any noticeable mark to orient herself in the future, but is once again distracted by the ceiling. She’s literally mesmerized how the ripples on the lake’s surface create the play of light and shadow. It’s quite similar to her enchanted terrace: the leaves, blocking the sun, form the same intricate, incessantly changing pattern. Jean is so carried away by contemplating the fluctuating depth of the water, that she full force rams into a short chubby student, who suddenly walks out of the passage opened in the wall. She saw the guy by the bonfire yesterday: he’s also one of the seventh-years.  


“Oh, excuse me,” she apologizes genuinely, leaning on his offered hand for a second to recover her balance. “I was unable to take my eyes off the ceiling.”  


“No problem,” he smiles in response. “It’s our personal seasonal disaster that Slytherin experiences every September. The crowds of first-years, walking only with their heads looking up and knocking down anyone who’s not cautious enough. Although, wait a second,” he steps back and looks her over, “you look a little… old for a first-year… By the way, I’m Philip Parkinson.”  


She shakes his offered hand, laughing.  


“Jean Knightley. So, I can hope I won’t do that by October?”  


“Walking with your head looking up? Through my personal experience I can practically guarantee your complete recovery during first week. Though some stand-alone bad cases happen, and sometimes even relapses…”  


“Will you give it a rest?” an irritated voice sounds from the still open pass behind Parkinson’s back. “I need to take first-years to breakfast,” and Malfoy squeezes to the corridor, pushing Philip out of his way. “Knightley,” he greets the girl with a short nod and hastily walks towards the common room.  


“Prefect,” Parkinson rolls his eyes, and it causes another bout of laughter from Jean. She doesn’t feel any dislike towards him. Perhaps, because the Parkinson family was completely uninvolved with the Death Eaters’ actions, first of all. Not counting Pansy’s low and cowardly behavior, when she offered to give Harry away to Voldemort during the Hogwarts’s siege. The memory is not a pleasant one, but the guy standing in front of her clearly cannot be responsible for that.  


Another seventh-year gets out of the room following Malfoy. This one looks like the complete opposite of Parkinson: tall, lean, light-haired, with long cheerless face.  


“That’s my roommate, Peneas Greengrass,” Philip introduces the guy. “And this is Jean Knightley.”  


“We met yesterday, at the Great Hall,” Greengrass answers quite coldly. Or maybe he’s just worried about being late, because he tries to nudge his friend to move right away, and Philip reluctantly obeys. Jean follows them.  


***  


“Isn’t Professor Slughorn going to hold interviews?” Knightley frowns, handing Theo the list of her subjects over the table. “No, I get it that the seventh-years keep learning the subjects that they chose last year, but doesn’t he help the sixth year to make up their minds?”  


“What are we, children?!” Cissy snorts under her breath, but Lucius is sure that Knightley doesn’t hear her, even though she prefers to put on an indifferent look.  


“He simply sums up our lists in a general table and passes it over to McGonagall so she could make out schedules,” Theo explains. “I can’t imagine, why the consultation is needed…”  


“Well perhaps so he could help making a right decision,” Knightley answers. “He should know better which subjects you’ll… we’ll need in the future, for the carriers we choose.”  


“Everyone has parents for that,” Theo shrugs.  


Lucius can’t hold himself and turns to Knightley. After a first-year boy, who was sitting between them, finished his breakfast and ran to his first class, he’s trying not to look at the girl, having noticed how annoyed she is with his glances. But Theo’s imprudent sentence might have hurt her… “ _Well, she’s holding herself well,_ ” he thinks with unintentional approval, when her pale face doesn’t betray a single emotion. Actually, it’s quite normal for a Slytherin. When Black sisters’ mother died, trying to present her husband with a long-awaited heir, the news of it spread throughout Hogwarts only because Andromeda was streaming in tears at the neighboring table. Her sisters didn’t show their loss in front of the entire school in any way. Cissy was in her third year then, and Bella was a fourth-year. Knightley, in her turn, just got sorted into Slytherin. Besides, according to Lucius, she still is absolutely **different** , so he’s very surprised to see her steel self-control.  


“Not everyone’s parents can give them a cue,” she counters, slightly lowering her voice. “Besides, sometimes a detached view is important. The view of an unconcerned person, who was watching his students for five years, knows their strengths and weaknesses, but doesn’t try to realize his own ambitions through them…”  


“Are we talking about the same Professor?” Lucius breaks down, getting three disapproving looks at once for his retort: from Theodora for speaking disrespectfully about his own Head of House, from Knightley for interrupting their conversation, and from Narcissa for daring to take his mind off her.  


“No idea,” Knightley cuts off. “ **I** was talking about how I imagine a good Head of House should do. Shame if yours doesn’t fit the description.”  


There’s nothing to answer it with. At least, substantially. Lucius only has the wording to find fault in it, which he does.  


“Actually, we were talking about **our** Head of House now. And it looks like you’re the only one who isn’t happy with his role in the educational process.”  


It, certainly, isn’t completely true. This is not about Slughorn’s role in the educational process or the life of the House in general, since there’s no such role at all. However, Slytherins actually are happy about the established principle of non-interference and self-governance which allows their Head of House to not bother too much with caring about his students and the latter to get a huge discretion. In the end, it transforms Slytherin into a house of individualities. No one would agree to replace the status quo with some stupid, useless surveillance.  


Knightley definitely wants to object, but changes her mind in the last moment. She shrugs, as if saying ‘Whatever, like I care’, and turns back to Theo. “So, what do we have to do until our schedules are ready?”  


“Nothing until lunch,” she answers a little dryly. Theo has a very strong sense of subordination, and the criticism towards Slughorn Knightley allowed herself to express ruins her mood. “After lunch we have a lecture on History of Magic. And the schedule will be ready tomorrow.”  


“Great!” Knightley gets up from the bench, cramming a quill and inkstand to her bag. “In that case see you at lunch.”  


And she heads straight to the Gryffindor table from where Cadogan welcomingly waves her hand. Knightley, without batting an eyelid, sits beside her which makes Cissy, who is also watching her, to grimace in disgust.  


“The newbie intends to pal around with Gryffindors!” She exclaims, wrinkling her pretty little nose. “That fact alone says that she certainly doesn’t have any taste at all.”  


“Yeah, especially considering the fact that she pals around exactly with the same Gryffindors, whose company your sister likes,” Lucius teases her lazily, taking her cool hand and starting to slowly intertwine their fingers together.  


Cissy takes a swing at him in half-feigned anger, but doesn’t take her hand away.  


“Meda was only hanging with them because that… Hufflepuff of hers,” she spits after a short pause, “was friends with that girl’s boyfriend,” she points with a nod of her head at Cadogan, who right at this moment stands up and drags Knightley with her. “Now, when he graduated, Bella and I are hoping that Meda will find someone better. And stop hanging with them…” One more nod goes towards the girls, leaving the Hall.  


“At least, they’re all pure-bloods,” Lucius notes, continuing to stroke his fiancée’s hand.  


“Blood traitors!” She snorts, skimming her stuff from the table. “Alright, Goyle and Carter still didn’t give me their lists of subjects. I’ll go find them.”  


“Don’t forget that you and Clive take the first-years to and from lunch today,” Theo reminds her, looking up from her parchment. She outdoes the whole lot of them in everything concerning any kind of timetables, call-boards and all that nonsense which makes up for almost half of the prefect’s duties. Lucius shamelessly uses it, leaving all paperwork to his partner. He, instead, knows like no one else does how to get on the right side of anybody, so he’s constantly delegated both to conduct disciplinary conversations with juniors at fault and to reach agreements with Professors.  


Cissy recedes, reassuring Theo that she remembers her duties, and Lucius can finally return to the plan of his speech which he’s preparing for the prefects’ meeting this evening.  


“She’s still weird though,” Theo says thoughtfully, gazing absently somewhere above his shoulder. Not pressing it further, she burrows her face back to her scribblings. Lucius doesn’t answer, even though this thought occupies his head for quite some time now.  


***  


“ _Who came up with the idea to put History of Magic after lunch?_ ” Jean thinks, suppressing a yawn. She has a good immunity against Binns’s prosing manner of narration, but after a practically sleepless night it’s very hard to focus on his lecture. She’d give a lot for Ron to sit next to her now, whining about how bored he is, and to distract her with asks to pass a note to Harry…  


Jean sits at her desk alone. When she reaches Binns’s classroom, Slytherins already took their usual seats in the left half of it, and everyone has a deskmate. Philip shares his desk with constantly disgruntled Greengrass, Theo sits with Macnair, and Amanda Prewett with her boyfriend. Only Malfoy and Bellatrix are left, but they took the desk behind Macnair and Burke, which delights Jean since she doesn’t have to demonstrate her dislike once again: there’s simply no place beside those near whom she wouldn’t sit anyway. But now she has an unpleasant feeling of being an outcast. Slytherins have History of Magic together with Ravenclaw students, and the girl was hoping to chum up with her classmates, but they clearly want to have nothing in common with the members of the serpent House, including herself. Despite the fact that not everyone has a deskmate, no one sits down next to Jean, and when she tries to catch the glance of the girl, sitting alone across from her, the latter hastily turns her gaze away and retreats to her notes.  


Good thing that Alice takes her being sorted to Slytherin normally. Jean hopes very much that she will have classes together with Gryffindor to have a decent partner in at least part of the subjects. Like in Potions and DADA: not a lot of students stay at the N.E.W.T.s level of these disciplines, so the study groups are usually made of the members of all four Houses. At least, it was like that in her time. “ _I should have gotten here a year later,_ ” Jean complains once again. “ _Then I’d have friends from both Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, and **they** wouldn’t be at Slytherin… I could survive Goyle if it’s only him alone…_”  


She glances at ‘her’ House to the left. Except for Amanda and her boyfriend, busy with violent bickerfest, everyone else lean over their desks and diligently take notes. Theo near-sightedly squints at the board, where Binns drew a scheme, depicting the hierarchy of the early Wizengamot, and Macnair pushes his notes closer to her, letting her copy what she couldn’t see. They exchange little smiles, and Jean unexpectedly feels a twinge of actual envy. This little scene she oversees reminds her of hundreds, thousands same interactions featuring Gryffindors so much that the girl feels literal physical pain because it’s actually impossible to return to her own childhood. Because everything around her is unreal and alien now, and there’s no one beside to friendly nudge her side and roll their eyes, expressing a complete exhaustion. The Hat was so right: it’s not even one day since she got sorted to Slytherin, and she’s already lonely!  


Jean catches herself looking right into Malfoy’s questioning wide eyes and, biting her lip angrily, turns away. The peacock definitely suspects something. She noticed his glances on herself a couple of times today, and every time it angered her even more. It is naïve of her to expect him to actually believe her absurd legend! And now she also gives him a possibility to literally watch over her day and night… And what for? For the sake of a gloomy, reserved boy even the thought of approaching terrifies her. Jean isn’t sure at all that Snape will accept her friendship. Moreover, she even starts to doubt now if he actually needs anyone’s friendship at all. In the end, she doesn’t have a right to influence his fate, and Snape is still destined to become a Death Eater, to make his most horrible mistake and then to pay for it throughout his whole life. Will it be easier for him, if for a short amount of time he has someone who’s ready to support him`? Or will it only make the bitterness of the future losses harder?  


The girl sighs heavily, disheveling her hair just like Harry always does. This gesture really has something calming in it. Something which helps to lay depressing thoughts aside. But nothing good comes to replace them, so Jean makes a huge effort and starts to listen to Binns’s dull narration again.  


***  


Jean spends the rest of the day at the Hospital Wing. There are no things for her to do there, but Poppy invites her to stay for tea, and they talk almost until dinner. This light chatter is exactly what she needs to feel much better. She reminds herself why she actually accepted Dumbledore’s offer. She only has to focus on studying for N.E.W.T.s, ignoring various distracting factors, including the bursts of uncontrollable hatred towards her housemates. If only she could meet those housemates less…  


She’s late for dinner, but Slytherins in full are still at the Great Hall. Having found her way to her place, Jean silently eats, not paying any attention to her tablemates’ glances. Soon they turn back to conversations her appearance interrupted, which suits her just fine.  


Theo, Malfoy, Narcissa, and three more students get up from the table before others and head to the prefects’ meeting, so it’s only Jean, Snape, Gwen, and Bellatrix, sitting afield and absorbed in her discussion with Greengrass and Amanda, who are left at this side of the table. Jean decides to use the opportunity to start up a conversation with Snape.  


“So, how was your first day?” She addresses both first-years.  


“Okay,” Gwen shrugs. “We had Charms, Potions and Transfiguration today.”  


“Wow, Potions?” Jean brightens. “How did it go, are you considered capable to put a stopper in death?” Catching the kids’ confused looks, she instantly slaps herself on the side of the head mentally. “Err, that’s how my previous Professor always started the very first class,” and she, wrapping herself in her robes eloquently, quotes a couple of sentences from Snape’s signature speech, looking right into his impossibly black eyes, wide with amusement bordering on admiration.  


“ _Come on, memorize that, you’re going to need it…_ ” She suddenly feels marvelous lightness, as if there’s nothing reprehensible in that she casually created a loop in time. As if it’s really just a curious little paradox, and not a blatant violation of the contract on the use of a Time-Turner. Well, at least she manages to get some reaction out of Snape.  


“No, nothing of a kind,” Gwen dryly purses her lips. “Today we studied the laboratory equipment and the safety arrangements. My hand almost fell off from having to write all of it down… And those dolts too!”  


The girl shakes her head in an indefinite direction in irritation and, despite the fact that she doesn’t point the dolts who annoyed her directly, Jean instantly realizes who she’s talking about. Snape’s darkened face confirms her guess at once. The Marauders stepped on the path of war. She carefully follows the boy’s gaze: sure enough, it’s fixed on two dark-haired heads at the noisy scarlet and gold table. James and Sirius are talking to Nearly Headless Nick, who didn't frighten them at the moment they first met and now is considered their pal, apparently. At least, that’s the impression she gets from watching this friendly conversation. “ _Well, of course, the Marauders talked to the castle’s ghosts a lot! Lupin told us that’s how they learnt a good half of Hogwarts’s secrets…_ ”  


The problems of the first-years slip her mind at once. It’s unlikely they were going to share them anyway. It’s improper to complain about any difficulties in Slytherin, she knows that for sure. This is the only consideration that holds her from asking for Theo’s or Philip’s help. Even though they both are pretty nice, Jean understands that confessing her inability to orient in the dungeons to them would be a very un-Slytherin thing to do and would give her away completely. Who knows, maybe there’s some very simple secret used here that every pure-blood wizard should know? But to ask for the ghost’s advice seems like a good idea: who knows the dungeons better than the Bloody Baron?!  


Finishing her dinner quickly, Jean waits for a group of third-years to get up from their table and follows them with an independent look. Fortunately, the guys go straight to the dungeons, and she enters the common room behind them with no problem. Now she only has to wait for the Baron to come.  


There aren’t many people in the common room now, and Jean comfortably settles on the sofa where the seniors were sitting yesterday. It also makes a quite good view of the entire room. Taking out her History of Magic textbook, she buries herself in reading the section, set for individual studying, and watches what’s happening around. First, bands of shrill juniors bustle in and out, then the rumpus becomes unbearable, when Parkinson, replacing the prefects, who still are at the meeting, leads the first-years from the Great Hall. After that Bellatrix appears, sends the gang to their bedrooms and sits before the fireplace, clearly not going to come to her own room. Jean doesn’t have anything else to do but stay at her place. Philip sits beside her, but doesn’t ply with conversations and opens his textbook to study too. About half an hour passes by in quiet, calm atmosphere, but then a new crowd breaks into the common room: this time, older students. Goyle is among them, and Jean understands quickly from their lively conversation that this is the Slytherin Quidditch team, who also had an organizational meeting today. Apparently, Slytherin plays in the opening match of the season, and the Captain, huge light-haired thug with round rosy face, can’t calm down and keeps drawing scheme after scheme in the air. It becomes impossible to study, and Jean is already going to move to the dark corner she fancied yesterday, when the one she’s waiting for flies through the common room, swaying his stained with silver blood clothes. The girl hastily grips her bag and jumps out of the common room to one of the gloomy corridors after the ghost.  


“My lord,” she calls him, when it’s only the two of them. “My lord, wait, I need to talk to you!”  


The ghost hovers in the far end of the corridor for a moment, then turns back and proudly flies towards her. Chills run along Jean’s spine when the empty, wide-open eyes of the Baron stare at her face. The ghost silently waits, demonstrating his arrogance and disinterest in conversation in every way possible.  


“Excuse me, sir,” the girl swallows nervously. “My name is Jean Knightley, and I’d like to ask you for an advice.”  


“I don’t give advices, Miss,” the Baron answers in an unexpectedly pleasant, deep voice and makes a move as if he’s going to leave, considering their conversation done.  


“Wait!” She exclaims in desperation, barely stopping herself from trying to grab the sleeve of the ghost’s robes. “I have no one else to ask for help!”  


“I don’t help anyone,” his pale lips twist in a mocking grin. “And you’re absolutely right, you have no one here to ask for help. No Slytherin student helps or asks for help. Your behavior is disgraceful, and you might consider yourself very lucky, if I keep your infamy a secret.”  


Despite the fact that Jean is ready for such development, she literally gags with anger. It’s one thing to know that this kind of principles are kept in Slytherin, but it’s completely different to hear with her own ears such declaration of dignity in the understanding of the oldest member of the serpent House. She genuinely hopes that these radical views aren’t shared by all Slytherins, otherwise it’s not clear how the first-years survive here. Anyway, the remnants of doubts and regrets dissolve at the Baron’s words, even though she still doesn’t like the idea of using the information Harry got from the Grey Lady against him.  


“You’d better do!” She cries resonantly to the receding ghost’s back. “You’d better do, otherwise everyone at Hogwarts and outside of it will know that the Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw should better be called the **Stolen** Diadem. I don’t think that Helena will be happy to learn that you’ve made her dirty little secret public. Especially, after what you did to her.”  


The Baron would definitely pale even more, if it was possible. He appears above the girl’s shoulder in an instance and leans over her dangerously, covering her with a wave of icy air.  


“Where did you…?” He exhales in shock. “Rowena swore she’d never tell anyone, and Helena certainly wouldn’t…”  


“Exactly,” Jean hisses in response, feeling her face grimace in a disgusting, malevolent way. “Helena never told anyone, but I still know everything. Do you think she’ll believe that it wasn’t you who betrayed her secret?”  


“Say now, what do you need,” the Baron gives up. “I swear, I won’t harm your reputation, if you leave Helena alone.”  


“Aah!” The girl drawls knowingly. “So, you really don’t care what she’ll think of you, you’re only concerned about what the magical world will think of her… How noble of you! And that’s after what she did to both your lives…”  


The Bloody Baron again hovers over her with such expression on his usually indifferent face that, for a moment, Jean doubts whether the ghosts **actually** can’t physically hurt the living.  


“It’s not her fault… not her fault that she couldn’t love me,” he answers quietly, and the girl feels disgusted about herself. She suppresses another wish to touch the Baron’s hand in an attempt to comfort him this time. She’s the first person he can talk to about it, after a thousand years of observing the vow of silence he made for the sake of the woman he loves. To bear his punishment for a thousand years with no end in sight! Compassion floods her, wiping the **Slytherin** expression away from her face.  


“Maybe, she did love you… afterwards,” Jean starts tentatively. “I know she regrets the way it all turned out to be. Regrets how it ended up for both of you. Didn’t she forgive you yet?”  


“I don’t know,” the Baron confesses bitterly. “I’m not allowed to approach her. We’re doomed to spend eternity in this castle, so close to each other, but we can’t even talk…”  


“But what if… I could give your word…” She gets completely confused and stops speaking, looking at the ghost’s unemotional face.  


“I was right,” the Baron laughs quietly. “You’re some kind of a wrong Slytherin,” he thoughtfully examines her all over, as if he’s expecting to find some external displays of her abnormality. “Thank you, Miss, I appreciate your noble offer, but I have to decline it. The punishment, put on me, doesn’t allow to use **any** means of communication, even if I really had some reasons to think that Helena might forgive me. I’m grateful for your sympathy, which I don’t actually deserve and don’t look for,” in the end of this little speech he bows formally, and when he straightens up, his face is full of arrogant dignity once again and doesn’t have a single trace of real emotions. “So how can I help you?”  


“I have troubles with orientation in the dungeons,” Jean answers, proudly holding her chin up to remind the Baron that she expects his help not in the name of charity, but because they made a deal. “I don’t understand how I can find a door I need, if it looks just like a wall and there’s nothing remarkable near it.”  


“And that’s all?”  


The girl is ready to swear she hears the notes of genuine amusement in his voice.  


“You’re trading the information no living soul at Hogwarts possesses for an elementary skill any first-year has?”  


“Not any,” Jean contradicts, lifting her chin even higher. “As long as I understand, it’s a specific Slytherin thing. And you have just said it yourself that no member of… our House will help. Until you box them in,” she grows so bold that she sends a mocking smile towards the Baron which he accepts graciously. “So, do we have a deal?”  


“Of course, Miss. Slytherins use individual marking charms. Have you ever heard of them?”  


The girl shakes her head, and the Baron grimaces with displeasure. “So, none of your ancestors studied in our House.”  


“No, sir. I’m the first from my family, who’s studying at Hogwarts.”  


“Well, I see then. The incantation is _Insigno_. But the main part is the movement of a wand. You only have to learn it, and then you can instantly pass to nonverbal casting…”  


The Baron explains her how exactly the required figure is drawn in five minutes. It takes five more to invent an individual element which would guarantee the mark’s invisibility to any stranger’s eyes, and Jean covers the whole wall of some dead end the ghost took her to train in with drawings.  


“Great,” she enthuses genuinely. “So, I can embellish the whole castle with my marks, and no one will see them except me?”  


“No one, except you,” the Baron confirms condescendingly and adds gibingly in the next breath, “and the incumbent Headmaster. So, if you have an irresistible wish to draw indecent pictures, you better realize it here, in the dungeons.”  


“Wow,” Jean brightens up, “were there any precedents?”  


The Baron only snorts indefinitely.  


“By the way, your last words sound like an advice. And I thought you don’t give advices. Isn’t it a violation of the _Proper Slytherin’s Code_?”  


“Never heard of it,” the ghost catches up with her playful tone. “A proper Slytherin doesn’t follow any code, but rather their own wishes and profit. So, I’ll give you another advice: if you need help, don’t ask for it, **demand** it. As if you have every right to do so.”  


The Baron leads her back to the common room on the word and bows gallantly to kiss air near the hand she automatically offers him to say goodbye, before leaving her in the company of her classmates.  


“Good night, Miss Knightley,” he says quietly, deigning the others with a formal nod, and flies away through the wall.  


“ _Looks like I’ve just gotten another recommendation, and this one will cost more than Malfoy’s histrionic liking,_ ” Jean thinks, settling in her favorite corner to wait for Bellatrix to go to sleep.  



	14. Chapter 14

Jean moves her feet up the stairs, leading to the Astronomy Tower, with difficulty. The practicum on Astronomy at the beginning of a school week bodes ill, since it means that she’ll have to spend half of the night observing the sky. But, at least, the schedule is made in such a way so that students have the entire after-lunch time on Monday to get enough sleep before the night they’ll spend awake. Jean planned to do exactly that, but no such luck.  


Misie appeared today right in the middle of the practical part of the Charms class, clutching a note from Poppy in which she was asking Jean to come cover for her at the Hospital Wing as soon as the class ends. Malfoy, with whom she had to work in pair for want of other volunteers, surely, nosed into the note and asked boldly if she considers herself competent enough to cover for the nurse. Jean couldn’t think of any decent answer, since she really doesn’t consider herself being able to deal with something actually serious, but she genuinely hoped that there won’t be an occasion to prove otherwise. In the end, she already had to cover for Poppy during the week-end: on Saturday, while the nurse was taking Remus to the Shrieking Shack and helping him settle there, and on Sunday which Poppy almost entirely spent with the boy, checking for his condition after transformation. Tonight, the time he has to spend in isolation ends.  


As soon as Jean arrives to the Hospital Wing, Poppy heads to St. Mungo’s by the Floo Network with the report about Lupin’s condition which she has to hand to the Ministry after a consultation with experts. Jean hardly has time to ask Misie to bring her lunch, when Sirius and James fall into the office, accompanying chalky pale Peter. He fell off the broom during their first class with Madam Hooch and dislocated his shoulder. Jean didn’t pass the muggle traumatology class yet, which was supposed to start only on her second year of training, but she was present at a fitting of a shoulder joint once during a round. Anaesthetizing Peter’s shoulder with a spell and pouring almost two ounces of a calming potion in James, the girl seats the injured on a stool, wraps him with a Gryffindor scarf, the ends of which she hands to the shaking Marauders, and after a few manipulations the joint seats in with a distinctive click. It makes Peter squeals curtly (in surprise, rather than in pain), but it’s enough for Jean’s hands to start shaking. She also sips some calming potion, sends James and Sirius back to their class, fixes the injured limb and, plunging the boy into sleep, finally gets back to her lunch.  


She hardly has time to enjoy food, still hot thanks to warming charms elves put on it, when a second-year, injured during an explosion of a cauldron at Potions, is brought over to the Hospital Wing. Then Professor Vector sends an elf asking for some anti-migraine potion, the stock of which in Poppy’s cabinet has just expired, and Jean has to head to the storage for it, where she also makes a short review to determine which solutions she has to prepare in the near future. Then two Slytherins from Narcissa’s year come. They don’t confess what about and with whom they fought, but the girl has a fairly big trouble with the hex put on one of them. Later Fabs pops over. He is loafing around the castle and doesn’t know what to occupy himself with. Jean is very glad that he finally stopped sulking, but she’s not in the mood for idle talk, so she makes every effort feasible to kick him out of the office. When he takes pity on her and leaves her alone, it’s time to rebandage the second-year with a burn.  


As a result, she eats lunch in the company of a worn-out Poppy who is burning with anger towards Ministry’s bureaucrats, with whom she was fighting for a couple of hours. Having had a quick bite, the nurse heads to the Shrieking Shack to take Remus back to the castle as soon as it gets dark. Jean stays to make a bed for him and order some dinner for all patients from the elves, and then she helps Poppy to tend to wounds Lupin laid on himself on Sunday night.  


The boy looks very bad. When they met, Remus was an adult and already learnt to somehow deal with some negative effects of the transformation. Besides, by that time the Wolfbane Potion was already invented, significantly easing up the turning. So, only now Jean **actually** realizes what kind of nightmare he has to go through every month. This burden is too heavy for an eleven-year kid and, despite the fact that Poppy stuffs him with all kinds of recovering solutions since Sunday, Remus looks like he came back from the dead. Even with Jean’s support he barely plods along, as if he’s moving blindly, not sure where to go. Warm brown eyes, of the same amber shade as her own, darkle and grow dim now, their defocused glance clings to random objects, but becomes absolutely blank and expressionless right away. When Jean and Poppy settle him down on the bed, she notices that the boy’s dirty, covered with scratches arms shake heavily. Then this nervous shaking spreads throughout his entire thin body, covered with old and new scars. Poppy, anointing the boy’s wounds with an anaplerotic balm, calls the incumbent Minister with the dirtiest names in French through her gritted teeth. He personally insisted that Lupin should spend an extra day at the Shrieking Shack ‘to be safe’. Then she heads to check other patients, and Jean sits by Remus’s bed for some more time, automatically stroking his hair, knotted together in a single terrible mat.  


When the boy, drugged with potions, finally falls into a remedial sleep, she heads to her lab. The review, made in the storage room, and a couple of days observing the patients bring her to a disappointing conclusion: some solutions, like burn ointment, anesthetic and restorative potions, are impossible to preserve because of the speed they run out with. She will have to spend at least two nights a week at the lab to provide for their permanent availability. Definitely, it’s too much to ask for the salary the Board of Governors appointed to her. At least, the first five days of the school year the concerns of the Hospital Wing absorb all of her free from studying time, and it doesn’t seem that it’ll become easier any time soon. If anything, it won’t.  


In such a mood, cursing everyone and everything, Jean hangs around the lab until almost ten o’clock, when the class starts. She misses dinner and feels absolutely knocked up, but, at least, she made some storage of the resolvent potion and prepared the basis for the ‘liquid sleep’ which she’s planning to finish tomorrow night. Faithful Misie has time to thrust a piece of curd pudding in her hand which she hungrily swallows on her way to the Astronomy Tower.  


It’s warm and calm on the sky deck. Two students lean over a stellar map by the parapet, where two telescopes are stationed. But Professor Sinistra is nowhere to be seen. Jean intends to come to those two, when suddenly an accusing whisper sounds from behind her back. “You’re late, Knightley,” it’s impossible to not recognize Malfoy, even if he now looks like a black silhouette against the sky. “I’m not going to make the work for you.”  


“As if somebody asked you to,” the girl hisses in reply, standing up to her telescope.  


“Actually, we’re partnering again.”  


Jean is ready to swear that there’s an evil grin in his voice. The peacock actually intends to turn her life into hell. As if the fact that she had to sit beside him in Transfiguration and that he later volunteered to partner with her in Flitwick’s class is not enough. She now also has to tolerate him in Astronomy!  


“Last year, I was working alone. And trust me, Knightley, I was managing to dot it just fine without any help. But since the work is made for two, you will also have to have a hand in it. By the way, you’ve already missed Jupiter, here, I marked it…” He thrusts a stellar map to her. “Now you have to note the positions of Mars, theeere it is, see?”  


“I see,” Jean replies grumpily, taking his hand aside, since it blocks the sight of the mentioned planet. “Malfoy, do you take me for a fool? Mars will be hanging there until the dawn, is it a fair distribution of work in your opinion?”  


“Then we’ll be stuck here together,” he shrugs. “If you want, I could mark Mars, and you take Uranus and Neptune.”  


“I don’t care,” the girl answers, taking a journal of observations out of her bag. “Nothing interesting besides the planets?”  


“Comet Väisälä. It should be at the perihelion point on the 12th.”  


“Of September?!” Jean brightens.  


“Well, duh. Sinistra even moved the next practical class to Sunday, so we could observe it in all its glory. It’s small though.”  


“Have you already found it?”  


Malfoy directs the telescope to the Gemini constellation and fixes the focus.  


“There it is,” he mumbles under his breath. “Absolutely nothing interesting.”  


Jean offhandedly pushes him from the telescope with her shoulder and presses her eye to the ocular.  


“That one, between Alhena and Betelgeuse?” The girl, not interrupting her observations, points at the comet with her wand, registering the level of exposure. “It may be small, but it’s quite powerful. And here I am thinking, why do my potions act so flakey this week…”  


Malfoy notes the data as directed by Jean and replaces her at the telescope to sketch some other planets’ positions. Then they sit side by side on a small wooden bench to exchange their notes.  


“So, you chose Astronomy because of potion-making?” He asks, once she’s finished. “You’re going to become a potion master?”  


Jean sighs heavily. Getting rid of the pesky peacock doesn’t seem feasible.  


“No, I’m not. Even though it’s quite useful to envisage how celestial bodies influence potions’ qualities. For the sake of general development.”  


“So, you signed up for Sinistra’s class for the sake of general development?” Malfoy specifies mockingly.  


“Well, almost. Actually, for the sake of the number of subjects.”  


“What do you mean?” The mockery in his voice becomes even more apparent, but Jean isn’t going to be embarrassed.  


“I literally mean it. The more subjects you have in your diploma, the more valuable it is. And Astronomy, at least, doesn’t string me up too much. Only one month and a half of observations, and then just lectures once a week. Splendid!”  


“There are two weeks of school practices in winter also,” Malfoy corrects her. “And a series of observations in May.”  


“School practices?” Jean frowns. “What’s that?”  


“Nothing too scary. You’ll simply have to help first-years to find stars and constellations. The most basic ones.”  


“I see. Well, I’ll survive it somehow. It’s still better than stupid crystal balls and Blast-Ended Skrewts…”  


“What?” Malfoy asks, and the girl bites her tongue, glad that he can’t see her face in the darkness. Of course, **this** Malfoy has no idea about Hagrid’s endearing pets that his heir will be walking along pumpkin patches a quarter-century later, wrinkling his aristocratic nose in disgust. “Never mind. Comparing to Divination or Care of Magical Creatures, Astronomy looks like the best choice to me.”  


“What about Muggle Studies?”  


“What about it?” Malfoy’s question baffles her. Jean refused the idea of passing the N.E.W.T.s on Muggle Studies after she got sorted to Slytherin. She’s sure that her House won’t approve of such choice. “Do you take Muggle Studies?”  


“Well, yeah. These days, you have to have it in your diploma to get a remotely high position at the Ministry.”  


“Really?” Jean can’t hold her amazement. “So, you’re aiming at the Minister’s seat?”  


“Well, not right away…” He answers coyly, and the invisible in the darkness smile distinctively rings in his voice. “You have to manage contacts with the muggle world on many various positions. So, one should study them to know the enemy from within.”  


“The enemy?” The light mood she was in until now vanishes into thin air. What Malfoy said in a careless, playful tone still sounded threateningly to her: considering that she knows exactly where jokes like this one will lead him. But now is not the time for discussions. There’s no point in arguing with the peacock, for that matter, so Jean suppresses her indignation and tries to change the subject. “Did you choose Astronomy for your future career too?”  


He scoops his journal of observations from the bench and steps back to the telescope.  


“No, Knightley. I chose Astronomy for my own pleasure,” his dazzling smile is visible even in the poor starlight.  


“For your own pleasure?” Jean asks stupidly.  


“Well, yeah,” he confirms in all seriousness. “To sit here at the tower, admire the stars, breathe fresh air… And it’s an extra line in the diploma, as you’ve correctly noted,” his smile gets even brighter. Or maybe it’s because of the moon, emerging from behind tops of the Forbidden Forest.  


“Let’s take new data faster,” the girl commands anxiously. “In a few minutes we won’t see the stars because of the moonlight.”  


That’s only one of the two reasons why Jean hurries. She isn’t going to share with Malfoy her worries about one of the Hospital Wing’s patients at all. The worries which are completely irrational, since the full moon passed two nights ago, and Remus should be soundly asleep now under effects of a powerful potion. But the girl almost physically feels the silver lights closing in hospital’s windows and wants to check with her own eyes that the boy is okay. So, she hastily draws already barely distinguishable Uranus, Neptune and Mars and, muttering incomprehensible apologies regarding a potion, she left under _Stasis_ , which should be checked urgently, rushes down the spiral stairs.  


***  


“ _What’s wrong with her?_ ” Lucius asks himself crossly, listening to a tapping of Knightley’s heels down the stairs. Judging by some longer pauses, she jumps over stairwell from time to time to faster get to the tower’s bottom. “ _Or what’s wrong with me?_ ” At least he knows: she can be normal. Knightley sometimes looks almost happy in the company of her Gryffindor pals, or, at least, quite relaxed. She amiably talks to first-years and even to some guys of their group: to Burke, Prewett, Wellfarber, Parkinson… But when her gaze falls on Lucius or some of his friends it’s like she freezes from inside, and the wicked flash burns in her eyes, as if the girl sorts through the entire arsenal of combat spells in her mind. Which certainly is impressive.  


Among Lucius’s closest circle, only Cissy doesn’t provoke this specific reaction from Knightley, but it’s still far from affection. The girl’s eyes, turned to his fiancée, is always kind of… **naturalistic**. It’s like Knightley also sorts people onto different shelves, and she still can’t find the place for Narcissa in her classification. Sometimes this fact annoys Lucius the most: why does superficial and dull Cissy spark her interest, while he himself, or brilliant, unconventional Bella, or observant and witty Walden are considered as not worthy of her attention since they first met? He tries to comfort himself with a thought that Knightley simply gravitates towards mediocrity, but he can’t deceive himself. All his observations say that Knightley is **different**. Besides, she’s not trying to become friends with Narcissa, she’s **studying** her.  


Cissy, in her turn, literally freaks out every time he mentions Knightley in her presence. Everyone knows about Lucius’s passion to collect interesting people. But the pursuit of this specimen doesn’t get approval from his friends. Except for Macnair, perhaps, who’s also interested in her. They didn’t speak about it yet, but a few glances, as usual, are enough for Lucius to understand his friend’s way of thinking. Bella is simply jealous: just like she’s jealous of Lord’s attention to Alecto. She’s especially angry about a sudden gallantry of the Bloody Baron towards the newbie. Lucius was also shocked, when he witnessed their goodbyes at the common room with the others. The ghost’s behavior spoke of genuine respect even Slytherin’s Head of House wasn’t honored with. However, the Baron never was a fervent adherent of subordination. He rarely participates in conversation in general, only shortly replying the greetings and comments on the weather. So, it’s easy to understand Bella, who clearly sees a competitor for influence on the House in Knightley. But what’s Narcissa’s problem Lucius doesn’t understand. Unless she’s also jealous of the attention he pays to the newbie? But he can’t talk to Knightley at the table in the Great Hall or in the dungeons anyway: she simply rewards him with a fleer and angrily turns away.  


It’s good that Cissy doesn’t go to the same classes as he does, and he has an opportunity to devote all of his attention to reach the goal he set for himself. Particularly, since his favorite tactics – to find a common cause with an object of investigation – doesn’t work as well as it usually does in this case. Knightley considers him a partner with clear reluctance and doesn’t relax even for a second. But, despite of her open hostility, working with her turns out to be nice. Or, at least, interesting, since the girl actually is a strong competitor. She doesn’t provoke any wish to giveaway and doesn’t give up herself, taking every task from Flitwick seriously and clearly wanting to beat Lucius.  


He ascertained that Knightley is very good in Charms during the initiation. Her contribution to the Unplottability line strengthened the protection by almost as much as all the sixth-years together did. But, in the end, Lucius always had low opinion of the following year’s magical potential. There’s not a single really powerful wizard there. Knightley is another pair of shoes. He doesn’t only sense potential in her, but mastery too, which could only be achieved with many years of active practice. Maybe the New World’s educational system isn’t as hopeless as the British usually think? Or, perhaps, it’s not about education, and only her personal experience counts. Knightley conjured Unplottability charms so confidently and routinely as if she was living under them since her infancy. Lucius asks himself time and time again who her parents actually were, and how did they die. His imagination is creative enough to come up with dozens of explanations, one more fantastic than the other, but it doesn’t move him an inch closer to understanding what the newbie actually is like.  


The practicum on Astronomy seems like perfect time to get her to talk. Besides them, only two Ravenclaws signed up for N.E.W.T.s level, who, surely, prefer to work together. Thus, Knightley doesn’t have anything else to do except for partnering with him again, which implies at least minimal conversations. Moreover, the specificity of the class is that quite a lot of time is spent waiting. Just like it is now, the stars can’t be until the moon reaches its culmination point, and they could simply talk about something insignificant, but very indicative: like choosing the classes for N.E.W.T.s level. But Knightley ran away again. What did he say that made her bristle once again? There was a moment when they were talking quite nicely, and she even replied without a usual tone of tired hopelessness in her voice, which usually means ‘Malfoy, when will you finally get off me?’ and which she uses every time he tries to start a conversation.  


“ _Or, perhaps, she needed to go to the bathroom and was too embarrassed to say it out loud?_ ” He supposes with a smirk. No, it also doesn’t sound like the girl. She managed to make him blush with her stupid talk about underwear. His smirk is involuntarily replaced with a small smile, when he remembers their trip to the Diagon Alley. It could be called dreamy, if Malfoys let themselves smile dreamily. Which, of course, they don’t. Moreover, on the second thought, there was nothing pleasant at all in dragging himself behind an annoyed Knightley in the heat. She was shunning from him just the same and poured him with hostile looks over and over again. No, there’s no reason for smiling, remembering that stupid August day.  


Hearing the sound of the door being opened, Lucius gloats. He absolutely isn’t going to cover for his partner before Sinistra. It will only be fair if Professor doesn’t credit her with today’s practicum. But it’s not Sinistra who steps on the sky deck. It’s Knightley herself. Moreover, she’s holding two cups in her hands, and an infatuating aroma of coffee comes out of them. The girl silently flops on the bench and thrusts one cup in Lucius’s hand.  


“Thank you, Knightley,” he says emotionally, “you’re practically saving me. Where did you get those?”  


“Misie,” she answers shortly, taking a sip. “It’s an elf from the Hospital Wing. By the way,” she rummages in her robes’ pocket and draws a paper bag out of it which, after she returns it to its normal size, turns out to be quite big and awash with hot croissants, “he also gave me this. Help yourself,” she bites her own croissant and rolls her eyes in delight.  


Unlike Knightley, Lucius was present on both lunch and dinner, but now he’s ready to also bellow in pleasure, so timely and delicious this early breakfast is.  


“Hey!” The girl calls for Ravenclaws, who loom on an opposite end of the deck like two silent shadows. “Would you like to eat something?” She raises the bag invitingly, but the guys shake their heads, not even bothering themselves with a simple ‘thank you’.  


“No one in their right mind will accept food from a Slytherin,” Lucius comments with a smirk. “You never know which poison you could put in it…”  


The girl snorts and ostentatiously takes another croissant. The Ravenclaws turn away just as ostentatiously, and Knightley gets notably upset.  


“Do you want some?” He shakes a silver flask in front of her.  


“What’s that?” She whips the flask out of his hand, unscrews it and sniffs carefully. “Cognac?! Malfoy, are you an alcoholic?”  


There’s not a shadow of hostility in her eyes now, and Lucius feels himself as a rope-walker, balancing above a city square.  


“Not yet, Knightley,” he answers. “But what could be better at one in the morning, than having sone hot coffee under the starry sky?”  


“Only having some hot coffee with cognac, I get you,” she smiles, returning the flask to him. “But first, pour it to yourself.”  


Play-acting an insulted innocence, Lucius generously splashes his coffee with cognac and takes a big gulp out of his cup.  


“Do you really think that I’m dreaming of poisoning you, so that I have to mark the planets’ positions completely alone until the end of the year?”  


“Well, yeah,” she catches up, “only you and the Universe! Isn’t it a special kind of heaven for Malfoys?”  


“ _She still has some issue with my family,_ ” Lucius thinks, pouring cognac to her offered cup, but he doesn’t say it out loud in order to peacefully enjoy their truce and his coffee. He has to quickly say something, so that her not too amiable sentence doesn’t loom over them, ruining a fragile balance, but no good words come to his mind.  


“How is your potion?” Lucius asks finally.  


“Potion?” Knightley frowns slightly. “Oh, right, it’s okay…”  


She wants to add something, but at that moment Sinistra gets to the sky deck. They hastily finish their coffee and, having their cups and the bag of croissants diminished, shove them to their pockets, while the Ravenclaws report to Professor about their strides.  


“It’s not the best night for a practicum,” Sinistra shakes her head helplessly in response for some complaint of theirs. “But it will be perfect on Sunday. What do you have?” She asks, moving to the Slytherins.  


Knightley offers her journal of observations to Professor and reports for both of them, studiously breathing aside so that Sinistra doesn’t smell cognac. But Lucius has a suspicion since last year that Sinistra is prone to brush under the carpet a moderate consumption of alcohol by seniors: until this consumption serves to warm up a little, and not to get drunk. Since Knightley looks completely normal, and her speech is still clear and intelligible, there’s nothing to be afraid of.  


At last, Professor finishes her examination and settles on their bench, burying in her own research, and Lucius and Knightley eat up the diminished croissants for the rest of the class, trying to not rustle the paper bag too much, and take turn in marking the planets’ positions which become distinguishable again, once the moon rolls behind distant hills on the horizon. When Saturn and Venus emerge on the pallescent morning sky, Sinistra dismisses the students, and presses her eyes to the telescope. On her way to the stairs, Knightley grazes the door-post, and the cups in her pocket clank loudly, but Professor doesn’t even turn around. Having descended a couple of stairwells, the girl can’t hold a hysterical laugh which is bursting from her for a long time and limply leans on stonework, her entire body shaking.  


“Mal…foy…” She exhales arduously and wipes away tears, welling up in her eyes, with her sleeve. “Are we out of croissants?”  


Lucius, smiling condescendingly, reaches to his pocket and extracts the entire bag out of it. Blowing it back up, they share the rest of its contains, and then Knightley shakes the crumbs out to her palm and gathers them with her lips. There’s nothing intimate in this childish act, but he suddenly feels awkward, as if he’s pried on something very personal.  


“I can’t imagine how I'll survive until breakfast,” she complains, not noticing his momentary confusion.  


“I’m not even going to go to breakfast,” Lucius replies, starting to descend the stairs. “We only have classes after lunch.”  


“I have Herbology in the morning,” Knightley sighs, following him. “I shouldn’t have drunk this cognac of yours… I will definitely oversleep now.”  


“Leave a note to Bella, so that she wakes you up,” Lucius advises. “She also takes Herbology.”  


Strained silence is her reply. He turns over his shoulder, intending to ask what happened, and meets a cold glance. The girl, who was just roaring with laughter, clinging to his shoulder to stay upright, disappears again. Lucius wants to grab her by the collar of her robes and shake properly, yell at her, demand her to explain **what’s wrong this time**. But he understands that he won’t achieve anything, so the rest of the way to the dungeons they walk in silence. It’s only in the common room, where their ways part, when Knightley finally looks at his face again. Her expression is unreadable.  


“Good night, Malfoy,” she says quietly and goes down her corridor, not waiting for a reply.  


“Good night, Knightley,” he answers to her back and shakes his flask. There’s still some cognac at the bottom, enough for a couple of sips. Which he makes, saluting the Giant Squid, who’s swimming above the common room in dark water, pierced with first rays of the rising sun.  



	15. Chapter 15

The week passes by pretty peacefully. Except for the row Knightley tried to start in Potions, when Slughorn didn’t allow her to partner with Cadogan. He has his own system: in the beginning of a year he pairs up students with the same level of knowledge, and the Gryffindor is an actual disaster in potion-making. So, Lucius wasn’t surprised at all, when Professor made Knightley sit beside him. In the end, before her arrival at Hogwarts, he was the best potion master of his year, even though he’s not really into the subject. Making potions together with the girl is even better than practicing charms. There’s no place for rivalry in the lab, and Knightley understands it perfectly, even considering all her childish manners and inexplicable hostility. By the end of the first class they’ve already developed a rhythm of work comfortable for both of them which allows to not lose precious seconds on the most important stages, when you have to simultaneously prepare ingredients and add them to the constantly stirred potion, acting quickly and accurately. Almost all potions, included in the seventh-year curriculum, could only be made by two, and the goal of studying is exactly to develop the skill to adapt to your partner’s speed, to not haste and not lag, performing your part of work. After a few months, when students catch on the essence of working in pair, Slughorn mixes the group, and the process of mutual grinding in starts again. But for now, Lucius can enjoy working with a perfect partner. Both of them know their stuff so well that they don’t even need any words: a nod is enough to let the other know that they could proceed to the next stage, or a meaningful look is sufficient to ask to hand an ingredient you need.  


On the other hand, the fact that advanced potions require complete concentration excludes the possibility to simply chat during laboratory works. But Lucius doesn’t get upset about it. It’s been a long time, since he reached the conclusion that silent work side by side also helps to forge a relationship of trust. Sometimes, it’s even more effective than hairdowns. It’s definitely so in Knightley’s case: one could wait until Christmas for her to allow herself to be dragged into such kind of conversation, but she’s gradually getting used to his close vicinity. Lucius isn’t in a hurry, he likes tasks which require patience and creative touch. He still has the entire school year to tame the careful and watchful girl. And it certainly is worth the effort, he has not doubt in it anymore. The Lord indicated repeatedly that he’s interested in communicating with talented youth, and he counts on Lucius in searching for new people. Bella must have told him earlier about her sister’s fiancé’s talents and hobbies, about his knowing how to reach all sorts of people and manipulate them. The Lord spent multiple evenings, discussing with Lucius the fact that he finds this hobby very helpful, and that it should be put to the benefit of the magical community. Of course, Lucius himself intends to build a ministerial carrier. Or, to put it clearer, his father doesn’t wish for any other future for his heir, and the younger Malfoy finds no sense in arguing with that. But the Lord’s plans are even grander than his father’s: he actually believes in the potential of his ‘young friend’, as he was calling Lucius without a hint of mockery. And he is very eager to prove that he actually is worth such trust. He’s been sorting through his ‘collection’ in his mind since the beginning of the school year, pondering over how to present everyone in the best way, how to demonstrate their unique talents to the Lord. He will surely like Knightley, and that’s only one reason to befriend her.  


Lucius doesn’t haste with his ambitious plans. At first, he thinks he should consult with Bella, but he realizes in time that his intention to introduce Knightley to the Lord will only increase the already existing tension between the girls, since Black’s unhealthy jealousy will break out with renewed vigor. Especially, if Knightley turns out to be a decent duelist which, as he suspects since their first meeting, she is. The new DADA Professor hasn’t arranged any sparrings yet, conducting theoretical classes, and Lucius looks forward for the newbie to get the chance to show what she’s capable of. For now, he decides to give her more space so as to not scare her away and sits with Macnair in DADA. They both have a lot of fun, when Knightley comes to the first class, literally clutching Cadogan’s hand, as if she’s expecting to be pulled apart from her. But her concerns aren’t justified this time, and now Lucius has an opportunity twice a week to watch her diligently taking notes, surrounded by the Gryffindors.  


The sight of it annoys him like a dull toothache. There’s something wrong in the way she looks so calm and friendly among people, with whom she shouldn’t have anything in common. Among strangers. Lucius should do something, tie her to her own House somehow, but he can’t think of any way to make it. Even first-years, who’ve just got sorted, are already proud of their House and loyal to it. How can you make a seventh-year student change her mind, if she’s already a formed personality who doesn’t want to see anything good in her own House? Despite her oath of loyalty, Jean still looks **unreliable** , and this feeling makes Slytherins to stay away from her which only pushes her further towards students from other Houses. It’s an endless circle of dislike which greatly hinders Lucius from achieving his goals.  


It takes time, tons of patience and a little of Slytherin scheming to fix the situation. By the end of the week, Lucius manages to switch places with Theo in Transfiguration, without arousing suspicions in her, in Prewett, with whom she was sitting earlier, or in Knightley herself. He’s going to resolve several issues at once with this maneuver: to give Knightley a little more freedom, so she wouldn’t feel too pressured, to let her develop a liking of a Slytherin, against whom she doesn’t seem to have any prejudice and with whom she has a lot in common, to make Wellfarber finally pay attention to his own girlfriend... And the good old jealousy is excellently suited for this laat one. The final important reason is that Transfiguration isn’t Lucius’s strongest subject, so this year he needs to be deadly focused in McGonagall’s classes which is unachievable if he’s scheming in respect of his deskmate at the same time. There’s Charms to tease Knightley and freak her out, Astronomy to have a heart-to-heart talk, and tacit understanding and camaraderie are present in Potions. Therefore, a sensible balance of different aspects of friendly communication is met, and there’s absolutely no need to annoy the girl more than necessary. Lucius estimates that she’ll feel lonely in the end and start to look for her housemates’ company herself. And his plan even starts working: at least, Knightley is quite nice to Theo in Transfiguration, and she’s rumored to make a very good team with Parkinson and Greengrass in Herbology. But everything goes down the drain on Friday evening.  


***  


Lucius doesn’t know how it all started. When he, Theo and Philip come back from the Muggle Studies lecture, the quarrel in the common room already picks up steam. Knightley, contrary to her perennial habit to huddle herself up in a far corner, is standing in the middle of the room with her arms crossed, and it doesn’t slip Lucius’s attention that her right hand is hidden in her left sleeve, where the wandsheath is. She’s paler than usual, lips grimace in disgust, and her eyes are dangerously squinted. Bella, confronting her by the fireplace, is reddened with fury and anger instead. Other seniors, including impassive Walden and Cissy, who’s wrinkling her nose in disgust, are sitting at some distance, watching curiously how things unfold.  


“If you have nothing else to be proud of, except for perfection of your genealogy which isn’t even your own achievement, then I’m sorry for you,” Knightley says venomously. “Because the pureness of blood on its own isn’t worth anything. I wouldn’t barter the right to love those who are worth it, be friends with those I respect and do what I think is right for it.”  


Of course, Knightley doesn’t know it, but she’s just kicked Bella below the belt. The right to take charge of your fate is what they all pay for their high positions in magical society, for maintaining family honor, for preserving ancient traditions. But Bella, perhaps, has to pay more than others, so it’s cruel to throw a declaration of freedom in her face now that she actually has no choice at all. And if the rumors of an Unbreakable Vow that Cygnus Black made are true, she never had it. But Bella, a permanent leader and powerhouse in their small group, simply organically can’t play the role of a helpless victim of another people’s decision. Only her closest people, and Lucius counts himself as one of them, know how she was tearing herself apart last year, when it became obvious that she won’t manage to avoid the marriage her father arranged. And she finally succeeded, convincing herself that she’s marrying Lestrange willingly. And the only reason she managed to invent for that – her fiancé’s ancient and noble house – turned into her fixation. Now the sky would rather collapse on the ground, than Bella confesses that she doesn’t think that the perfection of genealogy is the most important thing in life. Otherwise, her entire protection would scatter away like a house of cards, when she loses her last argument. Besides, the well-timed meeting with the Lord, who thinks that magical knowledge has to be a privilege, available only to the aristoi, to noble families, who preserved the letter and spirit of ancient traditions, influenced her greatly. So, Knightley couldn’t find a more ill-suited person to declare that ‘pureness of blood isn’t worth anything’ to in the entire Slytherin.  


“What are you doing here in that case?” Cissy chips in, while her sister, choking with rage, is groping for words.  


“I’m pretty amazed myself,” Knightley, who’s clearly also on the edge, shrugs, “what am I even doing among…”  


She stops halfword, but by that time enough is said to inflict irreparable harm. Now the wall of estrangement, surrounding the newbie, is literally tangible, as if she’s staked out behind a semi-transparent icy glass. Now Knightley looks defeated. She clearly remains unconvinced, but regrets her last words very much. It’s even more visible when her confused glance falls on Theo, frozen on the common room’s doorstep with a straight face. Knightley even steps towards her, forgetting about Bella behind her back, and a look of contrition appears on her face. But Theo indifferently passes her by, ignoring the girl’s obvious attempt to talk to her. Parkison follows Theo to the fireplace.  


Knightley raises her head and meets Lucius’s gaze. He suddenly feels a painful dig of sympathy. For all of her disgusting temper and incomprehensible objections, for all of her attempts to act proud and independent, she’s just a lonely girl, who’ve recently lost her family and a regular way of life, who is forced to live among strangers, adapt to new conditions… He’s seen how worn-out she is, when she comes back to the dungeons in the evening, after her work at the Hospital Wing, how focused she is in classes, doing tasks that professors give them, as if her life depends on it. Knightley clearly tries to tire herself out with studying and work, so that there’s no place for sad thoughts. Maybe she doesn’t need friendship, at least a Slytherin one, but she won’t survive her own House’s boycott. She has enough burden as it is. Lucius reads pain, fear and infinite loneliness on her face now.  


This is the best time to take a next step in taming Knightley: in a state like this, she’d be grateful to anyone, who’d back her. But Lucius isn’t going to risk his reputation in the House, and talking to the girl now, after she insulted practically all of them (if not with words, then with her tone which doesn’t leave much place for interpretation) would mean to compromise everything he achieved in the previous six years at Hogwarts. Besides, she needs to draw a lesson from tonight: always keep your emotions under control. If Knightley said those words in a cold calm voice, they’d sound as a scoffing answer, comparable to Cissy’s stupid question. But she’s too genuine, too obvious in saying what she really thinks, and revengeful Slytherins can’t forgive it.  


Having weighed up all the pros and cons, Lucius looks away from the upset girl and joins the group on the sofa. Knightley, not staying for one more second, slips out of the common room to the corridor.  


***  


“ _Damn Sirius and his big mouth!_ ” Jean thinks in irritation, heading to the Hospital Wing. Of course, convincing Poppy to open the guest suite for her isn’t even worth a try, since Dumbledore will immediately know about her problems with her own House, but at least she can shut herself in the lab and finally finish the hemostatic. The missing ingredients for it has just arrived today. She doesn’t want to even think about coming back to the dungeons to spend the night. She went too far this time for Slytherins to simply forget her today’s performance.  


However, it’s a complete childishness to blame Sirius for it. Jean should have expected that he would quote the Kocher’s method in his next fight with his cousins, impressed by her small lecture about it when she used it to fit Pettigrew’s shoulder. The boy has made a difficult choice only recently and is now in the House that defies of itself the principles of world perception that the noble House of Black in general and his crackpot mommy in particular installed in him. So, naturally, he tries to convince first of all **himself** that this choice wasn’t a wrong one, while discovering the world where the word ‘muggle’ isn’t an insult. That’s why Jean’s words that not anything and everything can be fixed with magic and that, sometimes, muggle methods work perfectly where wizardry doesn’t help, fall to the fertile ground. And, surely, Sirius set forth this argument next time Bellatrix and Narcissa tried to steer him to the right path again. At least, Jean thought he did, when the Black sisters came to her for explanations.  


The conversation started at top volume right away with the question of why the hell Jean stuffs the younger generation’s heads with such nonsense. The row attracted the entire House’s attention. And no matter how bad she wanted to tell Bellatrix what she thinks of mugglephobia and other pureblood chauvinism, she had to contain herself! Regardless of anything, Jean had no right to overreact, particularly since she turned all Slytherins against herself as a result, even though most of them didn’t even hear the start of the argument. It’s especially bad that Theo, whom she almost befriended last week, is one of them. Jean could have counted on Theo’s support, if she didn’t go off about her own House. Now there’s no point in explaining and proving that her not-so-flattering opinion concerns **only specific** Slytherins, simply because she still can’t say the reasons why she hates them so much out loud.  


Having luckily avoided meeting Poppy, to whom she also doesn’t want to explain her troubles, Jean sneaks to the lab, where the basis for the hemostatic potion is waiting under Stasis. She only has to add xiphophyll’s bark to it. “ _There are some advantages in this lousy story,_ ” the girl tries to comfort herself. She actually needs to finish a couple of difficult potions before the Väisälä comet starts to move away from the Sun, weakening the mineral components’ efficiency. So, the row with the Slytherins should work in favor of her duties at the Hospital Wing, since now she doesn’t have anywhere else to go anyway.  


“ _Let it be so_ ,” Jean sighs, tying her headscarf pirate-like to protect her hair from destructive vapors. She bought it in that muggle clothes shop across the Leaky Cauldron as a replacement for her favorite bandana she used to wear at the end of the war. It became hugely famous thanks to a disseminated photo of the Golden Trio made in Montenegro during a short break between two raids. Bandana was Ron’s gift he bought in Igalo and presented to his friend with wishes of good luck in combats. It provoked a ten-minutes fit of hysterical laughter from Harry and Hermione. Ron was attracted by the fiery-red color of the material and didn’t even think about the symbol bandana had on it. He, just like the magical world media which generously rewarded the girl with all kinds of dramatic nicknames, such as ‘the Gryffindor Vaklyrie’ or ‘the Striking Lioness’, was unaware of the meaning of muggle peace sign. Having stopped laughing, Harry offered to fill the old image with new meaning, and his cynical joke materialized successfully. The picture of the War Heroine in a pacifist bandana above the Bay of Kotor, always accompanied with some battle-cries, became as popular in the magical world as the portrait of Che Guevara is among muggles.  


Sitting down on her favorite stool, Jean starts to pound xiphophyll, handling her mallet with such fury, as if the entire Slytherin House elite is at the bottom of the mortar. “ _And it’s only the end of the second week of school!_ ” Her inner voice comments darkly. “ _What are you even counting on…_ ”  


***  


The potion quietly bubbles in the cauldron, making Jean sleepy. She never had an opportunity to sleep normally this week-end. Her entire body aches, and the eyes feel like they’re full of sand. The girl is sitting, leaning her elbow on the laboratory table and propping her heavy head on her palm, and pities herself. All of her pride and determination stop matter in the crushed state she’s in now, and her only thought, throbbing non-stop in her temples, is “ _To sleep… to sleep! TO SLEEP!!!_ ”  


The lab’s door opens silently, and in goes Lucius Malfoy himself, serious and alarmed like never before.  


“Knightley, we need to get out of here now!” He hisses, once she raises from her stool toward him. “Come with me.”  


His rough fingers curl around her wrist, and Jean barely manages to follow him. The castle’s corridors are full of smoke, the portraits that they are hastily passing by whisper to each other anxiously and look at them pleadingly, but Malfoy doesn’t slow down. Soon the girl realizes that they’re climbing the Western Tower, and at that moment he lets go of her hand and disappears behind the heavy metal door, hiding the exit to the top deck. The very same deck where she and Harry were watching Sirius and Buckbeak escape. When Jean gets out to the tower’s battlement, Malfoy is already soaring in the air.  


“How do you fly like this?” She cries, but the wind, roaring in the altitude, takes her voice away.  


Malfoy bends gracefully in the air, drawing his face closer to her.  


“You can fly?” Jean yells practically in his ear.  


“That’s a thestral, Knightley!” He grimaces in such a way, that it definitely replaces the unsaid, but hovering in the air ‘stupid Mudblood’ words.  


Jean gets angry.  


“I know how thestrals look! I’ve seen enough deaths!”  


“You haven’t seen anything yet,” his voice sounds sad somehow. “But it doesn’t matter. We should go. They’re already expecting for you at the Ministry!” He offers her his hand with these words, helping her climb the invisible animal’s lean back.  


Jean grasps Malfoy, horrified and looking against her will how the castle, the lake and the forest get smaller below them… At least, they soar above the clouds, and the starry sky spreads above them. Malfoy steers right in the direction of the comet, twinkling dimly above the horizon. Its shining becomes brighter with every second, until the silvery-blue light gushes towards them in a solid stream, forcing her to squeeze her eyes to protect them.  


“Malfoy, it’s the moon!” Jean screams in panic. “It’s not the comet, it’s the moon!”  


He simply shrugs indifferently, spurring on the thestral.  


“Malfoy, please, let’s come back! I really need to be at Hogwarts right now! Do you hear me, Malfoy?!”  


She starts to shake his shoulders desperately, then tries to snatch the rein away from him, but it slips through her fingers.  


“At Hogwarts?” He turns around, flicking his loose hair across her face. When did it get so long? “Hogwarts has burned away long time ago. I’ve told you we should run from there. The fire started in your lab. Because you shouldn’t have stay after curfew.”  


“What are you talking about?!” She starts to shake him furiously again. “Take me back right now!”  


Not saying another word, Malfoy turns the thestral away and sharply directs him down. So sharply, in fact, that Jean almost somersaults over his head. The ground approaches fast, and the girl tightly squeezes her eyes shut. When she finally opens them, she’s standing all alone, ten yards away from the Whomping Willow. The aggressive tree shudders and blindly throws its first hit. Jean dodges the thorny vine, rolling over the ground. Now she’s in the ‘silent zone’ right next to the trunk, where the Willow can’t reach with its branches. But the girl hardly has time to recover her breath, when there’s a growl behind her back. Half-transformed Lupin shows up from the hole under the roots and, pressing one of them to stop the Willow’s movements, he appears right in front of her in one leap.  


“Professor,” Jean calls him tentatively, but Lupin answers her with a hollow deep grumbling. The hair on his nape stands erect, and the face that was human a moment ago starts to transform into a grinning snout. “Remus! It’s me, Hermione…”  


Lupin makes another growl and lunges at her, hitting a shattering blow with his heavy paw. The girl barely dodges it, and his claws rip the tree’s bark open right before her eyes.  


“Remus!” She’s trying to crawl away from him, but tumbles over some knot. “Remus, I didn’t kill Tonks! Honestly, it’s not my fault!!! I’m not with them!”  


She covers her face with her hands, shrinking and waiting for his blow, and thinks only how poor Lupin will suffer next morning, when he’ll know… Tears stream down her cheeks, and the salty wet taste is the first **real** feeling that comes to her when she wakes up. The impatient knocking at the door is the second one.  


“Jean,” Poppy’s voice sounds from the corridor. “Jean, open the door!”  


Unsticking her wet eyelashes with effort and not fully awake, the girl awkwardly climbs down from the stool which instantly trips with a loud thud. “ _Something happened here!_ ” Jean thinks in panic and rushes to the door.  


“Holy Merlin, what happened to you?!” Poppy flings up her hands, anxiously looking at her covered in tears and swollen from the lack of sleep face. “You have a visitor here…”  


Looking over her shoulder hesitantly, she steps away nevertheless, making way for the least person at Hogwarts whom Jean wants to see now.  


“Why are you crying here, Knightley?” Malfoy asks mockingly, noticing her pathetic state.  


“I was making the Pepperup Potion,” Jean grumbles, trying to close the door in his face, but he turns out to be quicker, having managed to put his foot in the doorway, and, pushing the girl aside, enters the lab like a boss.  


“Oh, yeaaah?” His voice becomes evidently scoffing. “That’s weird, because it doesn’t smell like the Pepperup Potion at all. More like burn ointment. Which, by the way,” he sniffs once again, almost sticking his head into the cauldron, “should be removed from the fire now.”  


“What do you want, Malfoy?” Jean grimaces dolefully, putting the fire away with a wave of her wand. Poppy, who’s still standing in the doorway, raises one eyebrow questioningly, and Jean nods to her, meaning that everything’s fine. Shaking her head, the nurse leaves, and the girl turns back to the uninvited guest, inspecting her shelves. “Why did you come here?”  


Malfoy looks at her with his trademark smirk. It looks like he’s very amused by what’s happening.  


“I actually came to get you,” he answers and tilts his head to one shoulder, examining her like she’s some exotic insect. “You seem to have your own tradition to be late to the Astronomy practicum…”  


“Practicum?” Jean asks stupidly and rubs her temples, trying to get the feeling of reality.  


“Well, duh. I hope you didn’t forget that it was rescheduled for tonight?”  


“Is it Sunday already? Oh, right…”  


“Look at you, Knightley!”  


Jean turns away to the sink so that she doesn’t see the smirk in his steely eyes anymore and, placing her palms under icy water, splashes it in her face generously.  


“You should be under stricter control, who knows what potions you’re making here for yourself… Fine, there’s no time for talking, we can’t be late tonight. Sinistra wants us to conduct a practicum for first-years. For ours and for Gryffindors.”  


“ _This week-end couldn’t have ended worse,_ ” she moans to herself, smoothing her unruly hair with wet palms.  


“I wonder if he pits them on purpose?” Jean mumbles under her breath. But Malfoy hears it.  


“Who he, and whom them?” he asks, taking her by the elbow and leading her from the lab.  


“Headmaster,” she answers automatically, but suddenly recollects herself. “Never mind, Malfoy.”  


“If you say so, Knightley,” he smirks and drags her down the corridor, just like in the recent nightmare.  


Sighing heavily, Jean obeys, In the end, her entire life is a nightmare lately.  



	16. Chapter 16

“I’ve told you, they’re cool,” Andromeda whispers, slightly shoving Jean to her side.  


A picturesque group, consisting mostly of Hufflepuff seniors, settles down by the roots of a huge oak tree which grows on a smooth hillside near the lake. Jean, leaning in the trunk and throwing her head back, puts her face in delight under golden sunrays that fight their way through a tree crown, slightly thinned by leaf falls.  


“They’re fun,” she agrees, not turning her head. Andromeda definitely would like to hear a more detailed answer with more specific compliments to her friends, but Jean isn’t going to elaborate.  


Actually, she’s terribly upset. But she doesn’t have anyone to be angry with except for herself. She chose Slytherin **on her own**. And she made her existence there unbearable **on her own**. And buried the chance to bond with Snape on the way, since even first-years got soon enough that she’s an outcast of the House. But it’s even more upsetting when she meets the Hufflepuffs. Who would’ve thought that in the early 70s it’s not Gryffindor which is the nest of freethinking and ardent rebellious spirit? Now, her favorite House is just as much a pureblood reservation as Slytherin is. Out of all Gryffindor draft this year only Lily Evans is a muggleborn. Alice’s and Fabs’s years don’t have a single non-pureblood student at all. However, it doesn’t call off their rivalry with Slytherin. Apparently, roots of the antagonism lie deep in the ages.  


But still, this conflict can’t be even closely compared to what Hufflepuff has to endure where the good five sixths of Hogwarts muggleborn students are studying. The guys have only one option in this situation: to become what they are, a close-knit pack of mischievous and acrid rebels, waving their mugglebornness as a flag. They purposefully walk around in muggle clothes during their free time, ostentatiously prefer football to Quaffle, binge read and pass around books they bring from home and avidly argue about cinema, rock-n-roll and the Vietnam War. The living embodiment of her House’s freedom-loving spirit is the young Pomona Sprout herself, looking like she’s just stepped out of Woodstock documentary’s shots: long colorful skirts, loose autumn leaves-colored hair, jingling bracelets on a tanned wrist…It’s definitely worth getting into the past just to see her like that. And if Jean had to choose the House now, she’d out of hand prefer to be among this colorful, fun, tight-knit group and under young, lively, passionate Head of House’s authority.  


However, Hufflepuff accepts Jean as one of them soon enough as it is. Partly because the Slytherins boycott her quite openly, emphasizing her ‘foreign native’ status in every possible way, and partly thanks to Andromeda’s patronage, who keeps good terms with Ted’s friends even after his graduation. But Jean deserves real trust when she sits down near the group, singing to a guitar, once. The Slytherin, wearing a T-shirt with Comandante’s portrait, singing Let It Be, Light My Fire and Magdalene Lullaby in delight, can’t break stereotypes, of course, but becomes an exception to the rule and a rightful member of the Hufflepuff seniors’ group. But when it’s curfew time, and she has to come back to inhospitable dungeons, the contrast between those to whom she belongs by spirit and those to whom she belongs by name is simply shattering. So much so that Jean even starts to think that she shouldn’t have make friends at all, rather than ascertain every day what a huge stupid thing she did during the Sorting.  


But when she manages not to think about it, she’s getting a huge satisfaction from talking to Hufflepuffs and from their long walks outside the castle. Studying doesn’t consume her whole now, as it was **before** , but even cramming is more pleasant in fresh air. Fabs is absolutely right about it. And when a lazy bliss comes over, she puts a book aside and stares into the high deep-blue sky, slowly moving her eyes down to the horizon line, broken by distant rocks on the opposite shore of the lake, to the brim of the Forbidden Forest and back: up the slope, down the pathway, cramped between gray boulders, to the castle and to the hill near it, where Hogwarts juniors tease the Whomping Willow.  


“What’s happening there?” Andromeda anxiously sits up.  


“Something happened,” Fabian states the obvious. “Let’s go have a look…”  


He leaps to his feet before finishing his last sentence, since, judging by desperate shrieks of first-years, it immediately becomes clear that the matter is serious.  


“Look!” Maggie, the seventh-year prefect, gasps, pointing at the Willow.  


The entire group, throwing down their books, balls and the guitar, darts off at once. A bright-yellow jacket of a boy, lying on his back, is visible in a pile of leaves under the crooked trunk. The Willow rabidly pounds her blind branches on the ground, not letting his bewildered friends come closer.  


“ _Merlin bless Mildfever!_ ” The words cross Jean’s mind, when she climbs up the slope, leaving the others running far behind. Her gratitude to the fanatic instructor is absolutely genuine, since it’s very important to get to the tree before the others and to pull the kid from under the Willow, until someone as brave as a Gryffindor and as loyal as a Hufflepuff goes there. Or someone, who didn’t get Auror training and is unfamiliar with the aggressive tree’s habits.  


“Keep off!” She roars at first-years, crowding at the dangerous zone’s perimeter and clearly intending to rush to rescue their friend, in a dreadful voice.  


“But Davey is there!” A particularly zealous ‘rescuer’ squeaks indignantly, when she catches him by the shirt in the last moment.  


“Get out of here now!” Jean growls. “And go get Madam Po… Madam Duval!”  


Part of the kids obediently rushes in the Hospital Wing’s direction, but some stay, so she can’t even think about stopping the Willow’s movements before their eyes. As for the rest, Jean’s actions repeat that dream which ended up in meeting Remus. Leap, roll over, short pause right next to the trunk, a furious spurt towards the unmoving boy, get down under a ponderous branch, flying her way and looking like a clenched fist, grasp the injured by the collar, pull him along (there’s no time for a correct transportation!) and ‘ _Run, run, run, trainee Granger! What the Hippogriff do chicks do…_ ’  


“Jean! Jean, are you alright?!”  


The reality comes back together with normal breathing.  


“Don’t shake me, Fabs, I’m fine,” she frees herself from his tenacious grip and determinately pushes students, crowded around the injured, aside. “Let me see.”  


The boy got hit in his face by some spiked branch: a deep ragged cut stretches across its entire left side, from his hairline to his chin. If the spike that wounded him was a couple centimeters longer, he’d definitely lose one eye.  


“Is Davey dead?” The very same boy, whom she interrupted from rushing to rescue, whispers shell-shocked.  


“Davey’s alive, he’s breathing,” Jean grumbles, taking out her wand. Maggie breaks into relieved sobs somewhere behind the kids’ backs. “But he has a serious brain concussion. If he has any brain at all And if all of you have it too, by the way…”  


She doesn’t lecture the children further. “ _We should be lectured too,_ ” Jean thinks, cleaning the wound with a spell. “ _Sitting under the sun, playing guitar, joking… We should have taken the kids by the collar and forbidden them to approach the Willow. Mentors to juniors, my ass!_ ” Casting Mobilicorpus on Davey, she heads to the Hospital Wing with him. Chalky pale Poppy, surrounded by a covey of couriers, is already running towards them.  


“Everything’s fine, everyone’s alive,” Jean instantly calms her friend. “You’ll have to seam the wound, and he has a concussion, naturally.”  


“I knew it would end like this,” Poppy shakes her head helplessly, taking the injured from her. “Hagrid chased them away from the damned tree a million times, but to no avail. I hope they’ll stop now… How are you?”  


“I’m alright. I’m gonna make a mixture for Davey the entire evening though. So, we’ll have to cancel our tea party.”  


“No way!” Poppy is indignant. “What kind of birthday it is, if there’s no birthday cake?! I’ll bring it to your lab, if I have to, just so you know…”  


“Your birthday? And you kept it a secret!” Fabs’s furious voice sounds from behind Jean’s back. “I thought we’re friends.”  


“Fabs, I never even celebrate it…”  


“And rightly so!” He interrupts her half-word. “The upcoming senility isn’t a reason to have fun at all. Just think what’s expecting you: your teeth will start to fall out, hair will thin, limbs will stop working… Not to mention the wrinkles! No, there’s definitely no reason to celebrate. But it doesn’t mean that you should deprive **us** of celebrating too. That’s what I call pure selfishness…”  


Realizing in time that this eloquence spurt is inexhaustible, Jean waves her hand and runs to catch up with Poppy.  


***  


“ _It’s been a week, but there’s no progress,_ ” Lucius states in annoyance. It’s in his power to force Knightley to come back to the dungeons, and he made a point of using his authority as a prefect, when it became clear that the newbie is stubborn enough to sleep in her stupid lab until the graduation day. After the Astronomy practicum he threatened that he’ll tell Headmaster about her staying overnight outside of the dorm, whereupon Knightley surrendered without a fight. But to reconcile her with the House… This task is absolutely impossible. Largely because of Cadogan and that unbearable Prewett who took the girl under their patronage and were dragging her along with them all week. It would be a different matter, if they entertain her themselves. But no, they had to introduce her to all of their muggleborn cronies… It’s good then that Slytherin doesn’t have classes together with Hufflepuff, otherwise Knightley would spend entire days in that company.  


“Attention, Hogwarts!” Headmaster’s voice, enhanced by _Sonorus_ , interrupts his thoughts. “I have an important announcement. Due to the accident, which happened today to Hufflefpuff student Dave Gudgeon, it’s prohibited for all students to approach the Whomping Willow closer than a hundred steps. The trespassers will be…”  


“What happened though?” Parkinson asks in a loud whisper across the table.  


“Some first-year got injured,” Theo explains. “They were playing some stupid game, involving the Whomping Willow: to touch the trunk on a dare or something of a kind. The kids were hanging around it for days. So… He was so close to death. We’re called to a meeting today about it, do you hear me, Luc?”  


“Wait.”  


While Theo is chirping, Sprout says a few words.  


“What is she talking about?”  


“… fifty points to Slytherin!”  


For once, all three other Houses brake into applause when Slytherin gets awarded with points. Usually Slytherins have to congratulate themselves on their own, but this time their table remains silent instead, except for a couple of sparse claps from those, who, just like Lucius, didn’t hear the beginning of Sprout’s speech.  


“Well, thank you,” Cissy hisses, addressing Knightley, who continues to eat serenely, not raising her eyes from her plate. “We’ve never seen such shame. Points to Slytherin for saving a Mudblood!”  


“Right,” she answers venomously, “should have let the mad tree smash the kid’s head.”  


“Yes, you should have!” Cissy squeals hysterically, ignoring Lucius’s attempts to calm her down.  


The starting fight immediately attracts the Professors’ table attention, and who knows how it all would end, but right at that moment a Howler, made of red and gold wrap, falls on the table right in front of Knightley’s plate.  


“Jean, babe!” It joyfully roars in Prewett’s voice the moment it spreads out. “Despite the fact that you were intending to eat your entire birthday cake by yourself… **Fabs, stop!** ” The Howler interrupts itself with a reproachful girl’s voice. “ **Jean! We’d like to wish you…** even though you’re an unrivaled prune and a know-it-all… **Fabs!** But it’s true! **Happy eighteen to you! We’d like…** SOME CAKE!!! **Fabian Prewett, behave yourself!!!** It’s a Howler, Cadogan, it should howl, and stop meddling, it was my idea actually! **Fabs, the time of the spell will end now, and we won’t…** Three, two, one: HAPPY BIRTHDAY! **Good lu…** ”  


The Howler blows up in a firework of golden sparkles which slowly fall to Knightley’s closest tablemates’ plates. A deathly silence follows. After a few moments, a new wave of applause and congratulations rolls over the Great Hall, with Gryffindor and Hufflepuff showing a particularly great zeal.  


And Knightley is smiling. Lucius purposefully turns to see her face. She’s smiling as if this pathetic Howler is the most precious gift ever. As if there are no boycotts in her life, no poverty, no orphanage. One second, and the smile fades, being replaced by some inexplicable expression he doesn’t have time to decipher, because she sweepingly gets up and, having said something to the nurse, exits the Hall.  


“I liked it…” Gwendoline suddenly drawls for no reason.  


“What, the sparkles?” Snape asks mockingly, grimacing weirdly.  


“Not the sparkles,” she answers him in a patronizing voice. “How she dodged the Willow: left… right… and then bam!” Gwen makes a complex trajectory over the table, almost spilling her pumpkin juice into Theo’s plate. “I was there too!”  


“Were you playing too?” Cissy, who’s responsible for first-years, exclaims indignantly.  


“Ha!” The impudent girl perks proudly. “I invented this game!”  


***  


Poppy, who have decided that it won’t hurt if she opens a bottle of Romanée-Conti, brought from her native Burgundy, on the occasion of Jean’s eighteenth birthday, has ‘slightly’ overdone in her intention to cheer up her friend. Or maybe it’s not the rich, velvety and rather strong wine itself, but the fact that Jean barely touched her dinner under Slytherins’ hostile looks, so she sets about celebrating on practically empty stomach. “ _Birthday cake doesn’t count, since gluttonous Fabs chucked down **the lion’s share** of it,_” Jean thinks, and this simple pun pulls another uncontrolled fit of laughter out of her. She presses both her hands to her mouth to not giggle out loud, then tries to put up a gag out of her uniform tie, but it’s even funnier this way. So, as a result, she tumbles into her common room, laughing and spitting woolen fibers. And immediately comes across a fleer of steely eyes.  


“Kniiightley,” the peacock drawls cajolingly, getting up from the couch. “The rules aren’t made for heroines, are they?”  


For a couple of moments, she fitfully wanders **where did he learn about the nickname newspapers gave her** , and then laughs again.  


“Heroine?! Malfoy, write an article to the Prophet about it! ‘Heroical Battle with the Whomping Willow. The Magical World Is Saved Once Again’…”  


“Knightley, are you drunk?”  


“Oh, what an acumen! What a speed of thought! First in your class, are you, Malfoy? It shows.”  


Sarcastic effect of Jean’s speech is almost ruined, when she stumbles on the carpet’s crease, but she manages to keep balance and move further with dignity. Almost.  


“No interviews,” she drawls in a fretty voice, trying to shove Malfoy out of her way.  


“Knightley, you’re stepping over the bounds,” the peacock, apparently, gets angry. Well, at least to the amount he’s actually capable in experiencing human feelings. “And if it’s not enough, that you’re wandering around the castle after the curfew…”  


“Take some points from me! Since you have this thing,” she dabs her finger in his chest in confirmation of her words, missing out on the prefect’s badge however.  


Malfoy puts her hand away in disgust, but says nothing.  


“Oh, right, you’d rather _Avada Kedavra_ yourself than take a single point off your own snake pit… How unfortunate, right?” And Jean grimaces sympathetically.  


“Stop playing the fool, for Merlin’s sake!” He shakes her shoulders. “Or we’re going to go ask Slughorn for some sobering potion.”  


“Give me another shake, and we won’t need the potion,” Jean promises darkly. “Because I’ll puke all over you. And sober up by myself.”  


Malfoy pales visibly and instantly takes his hands off her, stepping back.  


“Knightley, sit down, we need to talk,” he points her to the sofa.  


“Go talk to the Giant Squid,” she snaps, feeling the courage wear off her fast, followed by alcohol fumes. She takes a couple of steps towards the corridor, leading to bedrooms, but the peacock isn’t going to give up and steps in her way. “Malfoy, bug off once and for all, okay? And tell the others to do it too. I had enough of talking to all of you, it would last me until the graduation itself…”  


“Stop teasing Bella,” he interrupts her. “And be careful.”  


Jean even thinks that she simply imagined these last words. Is the peacock warning her? Or was that a threat?  


“What should I be careful of? Of Lest… Of Bella, or what? Haven’t you forgotten that we’re all tied with the oath of loyalty? Tell you what: I won’t bother you lot, and you won’t bother me too? And stop intimidating me!”  


“Intimidating you?” Malfoy laughs tensely. “I haven’t even started yet. Tell **you** what: behave yourself, and no one will bother you.”  


“Behave myself? Behave?! Is it behaving myself, if I let the Whomping Willow turn a boy into a pounded steak? Have you completely lost your mind with all this blood purity?!”  


“Knightley, your shrieks hurt my ears,” he winces. “Cissy, surely, went too far, but she didn’t mean it at all…”  


“Oh yes, of course,” Jean nods energetically. “It’s not what she meant at all, she actually was under _Imperio_ … Fine, Malfoy, don’t waste your words. I think we reached an agreement. Can I sleep now?”  


She tries to brush past him, but he holds her by the sleeve.  


“Now, about your Hufflepuff pals…”  


“… I can tell by myself whom to befriend!” Jean pulls out her arm and dives to the corridor, not staying for another second.  


***  


“It didn’t go very well, did it?” Walden quips, appearing from behind the back of the chair that’s facing the fire once Knightley’s steps quiet down. “On the other hand, you’re still alive and in one piece, thank Merlin!”  


“Oh please,” Lucius winces in annoyance, “what would she do to me in her state? She’s was barely able to stand upright!”  


“Wishful thinking, huh, Luc? By the way, did you notice how she mentions an Unforgivable without even wincing? Something’s wrong in that New World, if such things are normal there.”  


Lucius nods absent-mindedly and turns away to the fire, partly to conceal his embarrassment. He still didn’t tell his friend about his summer training at the Lestranges villa. And he isn’t going to. He has very special plans regarding Macnair. He wants Walden to be only **his man** , part of his own retinue.  


“Something’s wrong in the New World, if people like Knightley are considered normal there,” he rubs his palms nervously, as if they’re cold. “Tell me, what have I done to her?”  


“ **You** tell me,” Walden smirks. “How about me? Or Bella? Or Goyle? Have you ever seen how she’s looking at Goyle? Like a rabbit at a python. Did you change your mind about taming her?”  


“If it wasn’t for Cissy and Bella, she’d stop shunning away long time ago,” Lucius puts much more certainty in these words than he actually feels.  


“But Black sisters never were as unanimous as they are in bullying the newbie,” Macnair finishes his thought. “And the more you persist in making the House acknowledge Knightley as one of our own, the more they will resist it.”  


Lucius crouches by the fireplaces for a while, thoughtfully watching how red flames destroy the last log, and then he gets up determinately.  


“Then I’ll stop persisting,” he finally answers. “And we’ll see what happens.”  



	17. Chapter 17

For a couple of days, Jean is racked with remorse about her rudeness towards Malfoy, and, most importantly, she worries whether she let something slip out of her mouth. But time passes by, and he’s not hurrying to strike back. Moreover, the feeling of constant tension and of suffocating attention to her humble persona disappears. It looks like Jean is granted the Slytherin’s ghost status while alive, and it’s absolutely fine by her. She’s trying to tease her ‘housemates’ as little as possible to keep the status quo: she goes to the library right after classes, and then to the Hospital Wing, where she’s trying to get done with her duties fast enough to return to the dungeons before the curfew. Communication with her newly acquired friends practically goes to nought, the worsened weather chased the company back to their common rooms, and she’s only seeing Alice in class. Sometimes, Fabs and Andromeda run by the library, but, for most of the time, Jean is sitting in her favorite corner all by herself, hidden from anyone’s view by a bookshelf full of bestiaries.  


“Are you sure he’ll come here?” A clear whispering sounds somewhere very close, behind the row of puffy folios.  


“I absolutely am, Siri, calm down!” Another whispering replies. “Where else could you go with a huge pile of books like that?”  


“Has he really already read them all?”  


“He’s showing off,” the owner of the second voice says disdainfully. “He thinks he looks smarter with a book under his arm.”  


Both cackle with laughter, as if the joke was very funny. Jean relishes this opportunity to carefully draw a big book from the shelf and looks through the produced ‘window’. She doesn’t see anyone, even though snorting and noisy fuss continues within her arm’s reach. Not that she needs extra confirmation who that might be. And also, for whom they’re making an ambush here.  


“Shhhh, here he comes, Siri, quiet!”  


Jean’s trained eye notices a barely perceptible fluctuation of the air where both Marauders are hidden under the invisibility cloak. And to where unsuspecting Snape heads, bending beneath a burden of a really impressive pile of books. The Gryffindors appear right behind his back, yanking the cloak off themselves and, before Jean has time to interfere, James shouts right in his ear, “Snivellus!”  


The effect exceeds all expectations. Snape literally jumps out of his skin and immediately loses balance. Dragged by his heavy load, he takes a couple of steps, trying to hold down the books but it only makes everything worse. The entire pile scatters, and the hapless Slytherin plops upon them.  


“Oh, you’re so clumsy!” James exclaims mournfully, accidentally on purpose stepping on Snape’s robes. “See, Siri, that’s what an overweight of knowledge looks like. This load isn’t feasible to anyone!”  


“In much wisdom is much grief,” Sirius backs him solemnly. “Why so sad, Snivellus? Spent too much time studying?”  


“ _Now hat’s some education the heirs of pureblood families get,_ ” Jean ascertains once again. “ _If only somebody also cared about their manners…_ ”  


Snape yanks his robes from under James’s boot and springs to his feet, looking around hauntedly.  


“What do you want from me?” He tries to snap, but it comes out quite pathetic and not at all threatening. He even forgets to get his wand out, while both Marauders have theirs at the ready.  


“We want to help, Snivi,” James answers good naturedly. “As friends. Although you don’t probably know this word… Well, Siri, let’s show Snivellus what friendly support is. Cause he’ll have to gather it alone until the graduation day,” he pries the nearest book with his boot tip. “ _Wingardium Leviosa_!”  


A puffy volume soars above their heads, but after a second James casts down his wand, and the book plops on the floor, raising a cloud of dust.  


“Come on, gather it!” He barks suddenly, so Snape flinches again and instinctively shrinks his head into his shoulders. Harry does the same when someone’s screaming in front of him. Just like all kids, who are firsthand familiar with violence, do. “That’s school property, Snivellus, it should be looked after… Madam Pince won’t be happy.”  


“ _Yeah, by the way, where is she?_ ” Jean still considers whether she should interfere or wait for someone who has the authority to take points off to come to the library. In the meantime, the Marauders are entertaining themselves by levitating the books so that the Slytherin can only touch them with the tips of his fingers. The good old piggy in the middle, magical version. Jean feels the very same disheveled nerdy girl, jumping for her textbooks all throughout elementary school, boiling inside of her. The moment she decides to step out from the bookshelf Snape realizes that throwing himself between the two laughing Gryffindors won’t get him anywhere, so he lunges at James with cold fury, aiming his fist at Potter’s face. The attack is quite sudden and might have even succeeded, if it was a fair one-on-one duel. But Sirius flies to his friend’s assistance right away, and all three of them are rolling around the floor among the sprawled books, chaotically hitting each other.  


“Potter, Snape, Black!” Jean barks. Her bossy tone didn’t weaken a bit after months of disuse. “Get up now!”  


The disheveled panting boys obediently line up in front of her.  


“What’s happening here, may I ask?” She inquires threateningly, putting her hands behind her back and slightly leaning forward. The Marauders silently exchange glances, and their opponent is standing with his head down. “So that’s how the famous Gryffindor courage looks like! Two attack one, from behind, with no warning… Professor McGonagall would certainly be so proud of you now.”  


James and Sirius are still puffing angrily, but, at least, their ears flush. “ _They’re not hopeless then,_ ” Jean states to herself with satisfaction. But what’s the difference, if she knows exactly how this school feud will end for these three. No lectures on ethics and morale can change the future, and if they could, that would be disastrous.  


“Take the books and get out of here,” she finally commands, and the relieved Marauders obey. Snape, on the contrary, remains stock-still standing and clutches _Quidditch Through the Ages_ to his chest, as if he’s still expecting an attack. “I think, it got quite impaired,” Jean finally breaks the silence, pointing at the book’s tattered backbone. “Give it here… _Reparo_! Are you ok?”  


“Fine,” Snape grumbles, still avoiding to look her in the face. “You didn’t take points off us…”  


“I don’t have such authority,” Jean shrugs. “Let me…” She tries to turn his darkened cheekbone to the get a closer look, but he angrily jerks his chin, dodging her hand. “Resolving the problem with a fistfight is not a good way. You’re not a muggle,” she adds to call upon his Slytherin essence, belatedly realizing that this argument works more in favor of wand duels, than against the use of force in general.  


“I’m the same as muggle,” he suddenly shouts with desperation and disgust in his voice and sharply turns away, covering his face.  


“ _Is he actually crying?_ ” Jean’s shock is indescribable. Even her scanty experience of communicating with kids is enough to understand that she shouldn’t rush towards him with consolations. Instead she businesslike turns to the pile of books and starts repairing them. After the Marauder duo’s ‘innocent fun’ most of them aren’t in the state for the eyes of stern Madam Pince.  


“And why is that?” She asks evenly.  


“I’m the worst at everything!” Snape exclaims. “I might be a Squib.”  


“You’re the worst at what exactly?” Jean is torn between sympathy and the unpedagogical desire to burst into laughter. Snape, an unequalled duelist, Legilimens, inventor of combat spells, is now complaining to her that he can’t actually do magic!!!  


“Even the broomstick doesn’t listen to me!” He answers tragically, and it costs Jean huge efforts to hold back a smile, trying to break to her face.  


“I also hate flying,” she confesses earnestly. “But it never crossed my mind that it makes me a Squib.”  


“And Charms too! Everyone, EVERYONE can cast a _Lumos_! Potter even already learned how to levitate things…” He snivels.  


“And you can’t do it at all?” Jean is surprised.  


He takes out his wand instead of answering and shows her a dim, delusive spark that dies out instantly.  


“Maybe it’s because of your wand, perhaps it’s not chosen properly?” She supposes. “Did you buy it at the Diagon Alley?”  


Snape shakes his head. “No, it’s my mom’s. My father forbade…,” he swallows convulsively, “…forbade her to get me a new one.”  


“What is she doing without her wand?” Jean is startled.  


“He doesn’t let her do magic at home anyway…,” he starts and suddenly casts a haunted glance at her, terrified that he let it slip. “He doesn’t like it,” he adds feebly.  


“Your father’s a muggle, right?” Jean asks calmly. The boy cringes entirely and is definitely thinking that all of his troubles with Gryffindors are nothing compared to what’s expecting him now. “I won’t tell anyone,” she adds, not wanting to torture him with uncertainty. “It’s your business to tell anyone you’re a half-blood. But you can rest assure that all the stories of the hundred-per-cent blood purity of Slytherin are foolish snobbish fairytales. Half-bloods and even muggleborns have studied at our House,” she mysteriously lowers her voice.  


“Really?” Snape’s face brightens visibly.  


“Yep. But you should do something about your wand. It has to be specifically chosen for you, and you’ll see how well everything will work out.”  


“Severus!” A worried voice sounds from the entrance, and disheveled and panting Lily Evans rushes into the library. “Are you ok? I’ve met these…,” she stops halfword, seeing that Snape’s not alone.  


“Alright, I gotta go,” Jean smiles to both of them.  


She barely has time to take a few steps away from them to get her notes, when Lily attacks her friend with inquiries, ahs and ohs. Having taken her things Jean almost tiptoes to the exit past them, smiling from ear to ear. For all of the awkwardness of her future Professor, he now looks absolutely adorable, blushing and flustering from his friend’s attention.  


***  


The class is excitedly buzzing before a long-awaited practice on DADA. Professor Demasiado haven’t come yet, he’s absolutely unfamiliar with British timeliness. Lucius settles himself in a wide window niche and stares thoughtlessly at the muggy slushy sky which is perfectly matching his present mood. It seems that everything’s fine: no troubles with studying, no one squabbles at the House, Cissy stopped sulking with him, and even Knightley yielded to reason and isn’t picking more fights and scandals. But Lucius can’t say that everything’s going according to his plans. Quite the opposite, he’s haunted by a feeling of a disastrous failure. And the worst part is that this failure affects him like no other past defeat did. However, he doesn’t even remember if there were any defeats in the past. But the present uneasy dissatisfaction throws him off: it’s not that there’s anything to fix, but still something is constantly nagging him, “ _wrong, it shouldn’t be like this, everything’s bad, bad…_ ”  


“Theo, can I talk to you for a second?” Knightley’s voice suddenly sounds somewhere very close. Lucius carefully peeks from his hide-out and sees her insistently dragging Burke by her sleeve to a free desk in a far corner of the room. “I have a little business for you.”  


Theo, finally, follows Knightley, slightly digging in her heels: out of surprise, rather than of the principled desire to boycott her.  


“Well, what do you want?”  


“Actually, it's not me. Dumbledore wants it,” Knightley corrects her.  


“He wants something from me?” Theo marvels. “Why didn’t he address me personally, then?”  


“Weell,” Knightley stumbles a little. “The business isn’t for you specifically… Basically, someone has to accompany a first-year to the Diagon Alley. His wand isn’t chosen properly, and it has to be switched with a new one as soon as possible. And Dumbledore said that only Head of the House or a prefect…”  


“I see,” Theodora answers dryly. “Why are you asking me in particular?”  


“Because Slughorn refused to do it,” Knightley admits reluctantly.  


“What about Luc, Cissy, Clive…?”  


“I wouldn’t even trust Wondershep with feeding fish, not to mention accompanying a kid to London,” she snorts.  


“Well, there still are two more options.”  


“Can **you** do it?” Knightley, apparently, loses her patience.  


“No,” Theo cuts her off. “I’m meeting my fiancé in Hogsmeade on week-ends.”  


“For the entire week-ends, or what?” Knightley drawls mockingly, but then she hurriedly adds. “Ok, sorry, it’s none of my business.”  


“None of your business indeed,” Theo unfriendly purses her lips, but softens a little at the upset look on Knightley’s face. “Why do you care so much? He should be searching for an escort himself, that first-year of yours.”  


“He won’t do that… Sorry for taking your time,” after a second of hesitation Knightley continues. “And I’m sorry for… well, when I said that I don’t belong among you, I didn’t mean **you** personally. That’s all I wanted to say.”  


Theo doesn’t say anything to that, but she goes away visibly confused and thoughtful. Lucius almost jolts towards Knightley, but right at this moment Professor Demasiado appears in the doorway.  


***  


The DADA practice passes by in some kind of somnolence. It’s basically organized like sparrings at the Academy, but the speed of it is absolutely different, and it takes huge efforts from Jean not to fall out of the pace the teacher sets and pay attention. Only the fight with Macnair turns out to be interesting, since he doesn’t act by the numbers and at the very start conjures a thick fog, covering the duelists and distorting the sounds. But Professor Demasiado interferes quite quickly, demanding to remove the fog, cause it’s not possible to evaluate the fight which you can’t see. But for the rest of the class Jean can’t focus, her thoughts are constantly going back to Snape’s problem, and, as a result, she almost misses a couple of simplest spells.  


So, by the end of the DADA she’s completely unsatisfied with herself: she showed herself badly at practice, and the problem isn’t solved too. “ _Who else can I ask?_ ” She wonders once again, and it turns out that there's no one else. Poppy can’t leave the Hospital Wing without the Ministry’s special permission or very urgent circumstances, Hagrid awaits an addition to the hippogriffs pack, and all of the teachers she spoke to offered her to ask Slughorn, either not suspecting how indifferent he is to his own House, or simply brushing off any extra liability. There’s only Narcissa left, but there’s no point in even trying to ask her for help, so…  


“Knightley, wait!”  


“ _Admirable self-confidence,_ ” Jean thinks, watching Malfoy, not even considering to speed his step up, approach her down the corridor.  


“So, who should be taken to Ollivander’s?” He immediately gets to business once he catches up to her.  


Jean absolutely doesn’t expect it. “Theo told you, right? Forget about it!”  


She turns away sharply, not wishing to continue the conversation, and goes along the corridor, but Malfoy gets up to her again and steps in the way.  


“Stop acting like a child,” he says calmly, and there’s absolutely no usual mannered laziness in his voice. “It’s not about you. Or do you want some kid to be left without a proper want just because you can’t stand me?”  


The dig reaches the goal. And the most unpleasant thing is that Malfoy sees it very well. Moreover, he calculated everything in advance, it’s obvious. Just like the look of triumph on his haughty face is. She has to admit her defeat. “Are you ready to accompany him? I have ten galleons, it should do…”  


“Knightley, please,” he drawls annoyingly. “I remember very well that it’s practically your entire monthly salary. And I can pay for the wand myself.”  


“Why would you do that?” Jean asks distrustfully.  


“And why do you care?” Malfoy retorts. “As long as I know, we don’t have any orphaned first-years. Is there really no one else except you to take care of him?”  


“Well, there’s also you now,” she snaps. “So, he’ll definitely be alright…”  


“ _Apparently, it was you who brought together Snape and Voldemort’s inner circle,_ ” a voice inside her head comments darkly.  


“So, Knightley, maybe I should ask Slughorn? Or Dumbledore? Tell me the name…”  


“Snape,” she forces out reluctantly. “Snape needs a wand.”  


“Is it the one who sits between us in the Great Hall?” Malfoy inquires. “The slumping one, with a constantly sour face?”  


“That’s not true, his face isn't constantly sour,” she unintentionally smiles, remembering that little scene she oversaw at the library. “And he’s actually a very talented boy. It’s just not fair that our House has such a natural who can’t prove himself only because his father is a whip-cracker!”  


Malfoy curiously looks at her sideways. “Do you even care about ‘our snake pit’?”  


“I’m fine with ‘your snake pit’, Malfoy,” Jean confesses, concluding that honesty is the best strategy. “I can’t stand you personally. And your little clique.”  


“Is that so?” He raises one sharp, as if penciled, eyebrow. She saw this movement acted out by the ferret so many times! “How exactly did we displease you?”  


“Does it really matter?” She suddenly understands how terribly tired she is of it all: of this distressing conversation, of daily awakenings under Bellatrix’s heavy, drilling eyes, of the House common room getting quiet when she comes in, of the stamp of ‘the false Slytherin’, of this alien, unreal life in which you can’t even complain to someone that everything sucks…  


Jean snivels and hastily turns away.  


“Hey,” Malfoy calls for her uncertainly. He’s clearly confused and carefully shakes Jean by the shoulder. “Are you ok?”  


“I simply hate you lot!” She bursts out to her own surprise and dashes off, leaving confused Malfoy in the middle of an empty corridor.  


***  


The first-year turns out to be a quite tolerable company. Lucius was expecting that he’ll have to pry the boy away from the shop-windows with a crowbar, answer hundreds of silly ‘whys’ or, vice versa, endure through a flood of gibble-gabble. Basically, he was expecting everything one should from an eleven-year old kid. But Severus behaves surprisingly quietly: he obediently follows Lucius all the way from the Ministry, where they arrived via the Floo Network, and opens his mouth only when he’s addressed to. “Is it your first time at the Diagon Alley?” “Yes, sir.” “So where then did you get your robes, textbooks…?” “Mom ordered a home delivery, sir.” “Are you hungry?” “No, sir.” Through all these attempts to foster a polite dialogue Lucius wants to clear up something he’s actually interested in, but there’s a misfortune waiting for him here: the boy has no idea why he was honored with Knightley’s patronage. According to his reassurances, they barely exchanged a couple of words.  


At first, Lucius was planning to get Severus to the Ollivander’s shop and leave him there to choose a wand, while he himself peeps into the Knockturn Alley and visits Borgin and Burkes. Crabbe avidly described the antique shop in his last letter. But then Lucius gets curious if there are any foundations for Knightley’s praises about Snape, so he stays to watch. Everything goes as usual at first: the elderly master, after having cordially met the clients, gets into rustling about some remote shelves and is out of the room for nearly ten minutes. Then he reappears with a pile of boxes and starts to offer the boy different wands one after another. Severus quite expertly wings the air and does a perfectly nice sweep of the hand, but gets darker with every new attempt, since no wand calls forth his magic. But undisturbed Ollivander opens new boxes, gets up his little single ladder to reach the upper shelf, and Lucius is so tired of all this fussing around that he zones out. That’s why a bright whirl of turquois sparks, suddenly escaping from yet another wand, surprises him.  


“Ooooh,” Severus drawls in admiration, and Ollivander rubs his hands in delight.  


“Hawthorn and the augurey’s feather, thirteen inches. A rare, very rare core. It chooses wizards with a very developed intuition, quick-sighted, but also offish and reserved ones,” the master thoughtfully rubs his chin. “I never thought this wand will see its owner… Well, boy, try to conjure something with it.”  


Lucius expects Snape to demonstrate one of the spells Flitwick already taught them. But instead he unintelligibly says something in a hissy whisper, and an almost two-feet viper flies out of his wand, spins in the air and heavily plops on the covered with empty boxes table. The snake hisses menacingly, but before Lucius actually has time to get scared, Ollivander casts up his wand and dispels the illusion.  


“Well, the wand listens to you, that one is clear,” he says, shaking his head reproachfully, and starts to gather his other articles. “Be careful, boy, be careful…”  


“How much is that?” Lucius nods at the wand that happy Severus clutches to his chest.  


“Five galleons,” he offers Snape a carved box made of some dark wood, while Lucius counts the coins. “It’s not quite expensive, but a very rare wand for a wizard of a complex fate. Good luck, Severus Snape, may it serve you faithfully and loyally…”  


Continuing to mumble something under his breath, Ollivander disappears in the depths of his shop. Lucius shrugs and nudges the boy towards the exit.  


“So, what was that spell?” He asks first thing, when they start walking towards the Leaky Cauldron.  


“ _Serpensortia_? My mom taught me it,” Severus reservedly boasts, but one can tell how proud he is of himself. “She also was a Slytherin, Eileen Prince…” He glances at Lucius hopefully, but he only shakes his head. He never heard of Eileen Prince, even though he saw this surname in the genealogical trees of some families he knows.  


“But it wasn’t a real snake, right? It was an illusion?”  


“Not quite an illusion. Mom said it can bite too. And it behaves like a real snake. But you can’t kill it like an actual snake, only dispel.”  


“Not bad,” Lucius compliments, and the boy’s cheeks color with a feeble blush. “But you shouldn’t use the spell too often. It should be kept for special occasions, when it’s important to have an effect… Do you want me to teach you a couple of simpler spells?”  



	18. Chapter 18

The quidditch season opens on the first Saturday of October with the match between Slytherin and Ravenclaw. Jean has no idea why she dragged herself to the game. She only went to quidditch before so that Harry and Ron don’t call her a nerd who has no interests in life that lie outside of the library. Well, they still called her that despite the fact that she actually visited games… But now her presence at the pitch seems absolutely pointless, she doesn’t even have someone to cheer for, because her own ‘native’ House doesn’t enthuse her even a little bit, and it’s also unwise to blatantly support the opposite team. And it’s not really nice, considering that three quarters of the school are already gunning against Slytherin. Including the commentator Fabs, who tirelessly peppers the silver-green team with ambiguous compliments, such as “ _The guys clearly know what tactics is. Did they finally find the word in the dictionary? _”  
__

Despite the unfriendly atmosphere at the bleachers, the Slytherins stayed nonchalant. As long as Jean understands, they visibly excel the Ravenclaw team at the level of play, and no acrid comment could pique at players or their fans. Perhaps, the only person at the stadium who is actually sad about the open hostility towards Slytherin is Jean herself. “ _Maybe there wouldn’t be any ‘dark wizards’ House’ if it wasn’t for the biased attitude towards them from the others?_ ” She thinks, stealthily eyeing the students sitting around her. They don’t look any different than people of other Houses now. “ _So why does everybody see them as enemies now, even though the war and actual confrontation lie ahead yet?_ ”  


Snitch is caught at the twentieth minute, and the Slytherin end empties immediately: the crowd of celebrating fans pours down to congratulate their quidditch heroes. Deeply absorbed in her thoughts Jean doesn’t even have time to realize that the game is already over when she finds herself completely alone. The weather is very fall-like, but at least it’s not raining, and the bleacher safely protects her from the cold wind, so she decides to sit there a little longer. She almost never went outside these last two weeks. No such luck!  


“Is anybody here?! Help!” Hasty steps rumble the wooden stairs, and then Gwen, flushed from running, jumps out at the bleacher. “Oh, Knightley, it’s you!”  


After Jean’s awkward attempt to apologize to Theo her position at the House got a little better. Of course, she wouldn’t manage to gain friends in Slytherin even if she wanted to, but, at least, they stopped boycotting her (most likely, out of boredom). And Jean doesn’t need anything else. The main thing is that now, when they stopped squinting at her as if she’s a leper and deliberately emphasizing her persona non grata status, she has a chance to get closer to Snape. Her initial plan on taming the bitter and distrustful boy was based on helping him studying, but once he became the owner of the new wand, he doesn’t need extra explanations so much anymore. Nevertheless, Jean gave him a couple of Charms and Transfiguration consultations right in the middle of the Slytherin common room, and it’s not surprising that she gained popularity among juniors as a result, since no one ever helped them with school issues before. Gwen is one of those who disastrously lags in classes, but she easily catches on to everything during individual sessions. And, unlike other kids who, once having gotten help, immediately forget about Jean’s existence, the girl literally tails her and breathes down her neck at the library and Great Hall. But now the problem is clearly more serious than failing at levitating charms.  


“It’s so good that you’re here!” Gwen jabbers. “Come on, faster, cause there’s no one there, and they…”  


“What happened, though? Who ‘they’?” Jean tries to get the facts straight, while being already dragged down the stairs.  


“The Gryffs!” The girl replies, as if spitting a hateful word. “Potter and Black.”  


“ _Where, where does IT come from, they’re only first-years?_ ” Jean is horrified.  


Gwen, still tightly clutching Jean’s hand, leads her somewhere under the bleachers on the eastern side. Next moment a crimson spark of some unknown spell flies above their heads.  


“Wait here,” Jean orders the girl and, bending down, steps into the darkness under the bleachers. “Come on now, get out of there all of you, quickly!” She’s trying to add some metal to her voice. “Potter, Black… Out, right now!”  


“ _Stupefy_!” A reply comes from somewhere in the darkness. Of course, Jean isn’t the aim for the spell, but she gets seriously angry.  


She finally traces one of the silhouettes, ducking near the wall, and immediately orders a non-verbal _Expelliarmus_. The owner of the wand that flies right to her hands, not realizing what happened, takes a couple of careless steps towards the exit trying to catch it, and it’s enough for Jean to unpedagogically grab him by the ear.  


“Sirius Black,” she hisses menacingly, pulling the boy in the light. “What was unclear when I said to all of you to get outside?”  


“You’re no one, you have no authority,” the heir of the noble Black family grumbles. “And besides, we can play wherever we want to.”  


“So, you were playing, huh?! With _Stupefy_? You’d better not move now, or Professor McGonagall will take care of you herself. Or should I hex you, just to be sure?”  


Sirius grumbles under his breath again that he promises to wait right here, and Jean crawls back. She has to go further from the exit into the under-bleachers this time before she hears voices.  


“Don’t touch me, Snivellus! Back off!” James screams hysterically in a tearful voice.  


Snape doesn’t sound any more cheerful. “You idiot, you won’t get out of here on your own. Let me…”  


“I said back off, jerk!” He answers angrily.  


Jean casts a _Lumos_ and finally sees both boys: James is sitting right on the ground, burrowing his face to his knees and bracing his head with both hands, and Snape in his ridiculous, oversized robes leans above him.  


“Well, **haven't you played enough yet?** ” Jean asks, coming closer. “Now, get out of here, both of you!”  


“He can’t,” Snape objects quietly, slumping and tucking his head into his shoulders.  


“I went blind!” James complains. “This jerk cursed me. He should be expelled!”  


“Nice job, both of you,” Jean cuts off. “ _Finite Incantatem_!”  


But nothing happens. James is still whining softly, clutching his palms to his face, and Snape gets completely white with horror.  


“Well, what was the curse?” Jean asks wearily.  


“Someone taught me it,” Snape forces out reluctantly. “It’s a quite complex one: first, you have to…”  


“I see,” Jean interrupts him. “A uniquely designed spell. Well, let’s go to the Hospital Wing then.”  


***  


Celebrations at the Slytherin common room are well under way, but Lucius isn’t in the mood to party. And he has plenty of reasons to not be. First of all, the match was blatantly boring. It’s easier to outgame Ravenclaw than to take away a chocolate frog from a first-year. Secondly, he was never really into all that fervor around quidditch. If it wasn’t for the prefect’s duties, he wouldn’t even come to the field. But there was also a third reason, which, as much as he wants to wave it off, is the main one. Lucius is sitting on his favorite couch, away from the fussing and buzzing, and is kissing his fiancée and **is feeling nothing**.  


Sure, he never was in love with her anyway: theirs would be a classic marriage of convenience. Moreover, their parents decided everything long before their kids went to Hogwarts. Besides, Cissy, who, unlike her older sister, is very reserved and even coldish, isn’t going to allow herself or her fiancé anything **extra** before the wedding. But before this Lucius was at least thinking with pleasure about the time when this attractive and perfectly-high-society witch will become his lawful wife. Before this he liked spending time with his fiancée, and the fact that she’s a little stupid didn’t bother him. On the contrary, it has its benefits: Cissy always knows her place and never contradicts him, doesn’t nose in the conversations that doesn’t concern her, and emphasizes her fiancé’s superiority in every way possible. And yes, kissing her roused at least some emotions before.  


But now he has a feeling that he’s kissing Cissy **out of convenience** as well. He eyes her fine little Black’s nose, perfectly smooth hairdo, soft velvety skin of her cheek, delicately pink earlobe which is inches away from his lips, her slender neck and elegant collarbone in the neckline of her chic lilac robe, breathes in the delicate aroma of some fresh perfume, and he gets unbearably sick from realization that he will be bound with this doll for the rest of his life. That he will have to take care of her, spend nights with her, choose furniture for the nursery room together… No, he doesn’t want to think about it all! Lucius tries to concentrate on the close warmth of her body again, imagining how would it feel to **want** Narcissa. Cause she’s not a doll really, she’s alive, she’s beautiful, she’s here, near him, he can feel her heartbeat pulsing evenly, fascinatingly…  


“Malfoy!” The quiet voice of Knightley, who appeared in the common room from Merlin knows where, is practically ringing with rage. “We need to talk. Right now.”  


“Then talk,” Lucius waves his hand invitingly.  


“Not here,” she winces. “Can we go out?”  


Cissy nearly opens her mouth to interrupt, but Lucius clasps her hand warningly. Knightley clearly learnt her lesson, she doesn’t want to make the entire House to witness an unpleasant conversation. And she’s absolutely right. Besides… He suddenly catches himself thinking that he wants to escape from here **so much** that even arguing with Knightley looks like a more attractive alternative.  


“Ok, let’s go and talk,” he takes her by the elbow for good measure and leads her to the corridor. “Well?”  


“I’m not going to talk to you here either,” she wriggles out of his grip. “Let’s go outside, at least.”  


Lucius, intrigued, follows her silently. Knightley turns from the Entrance Hall to an open gallery, leading to the Hospital Wing, but stops, not even having taken ten steps, in front of one of the archs which opens a beautiful view of the lake. And, judging by the fact that the promised conversation still hasn’t started, she dragged him out here for the contemplation of it.  


“So, what’s the matter?” Lucius asks in a bored tone. “I actually am not clothed for walking in fresh air…”  


Knightley sharply turns to face him with her wand at the ready and throws some nonverbal spell. For a moment a panic-driven fear seizes him, but then recognition comes: it’s only warming charms. Although, very powerful ones.  


“What are you trying to do, roast me?” Lucius smirks, drying the sweat which immediately breaks out on his forehead. She silently raises her wand again. “I can do that myself, thanks!” He cancels the effect of her spell and puts it back again. “So, were you going to talk or practice your charms?”  


“Why do you pit them against each other?” She goes straight to the point in an accusatory tone. It’s not that Lucius understands what the point is in the first place.  


“Pit who against whom?” He asks in a serious voice, but Knightley somehow gets even angrier.  


“Snape against Ma…,” irritated, she tries to tuck her forelock behind her ear, “against the Gryffs!”  


“The thought never even entered my head,” he mockingly raises his hands in a protective gesture and suddenly it’s like someone punched him in the stomach. A lonely sunbeam, having unexpectedly fought its way through a sheer cloudy blanket, smears the girl’s hair, and that very annoying lock she always fights with turns honey-gold for a moment. And, as if by magic, everything in her changes: her sharp features made of mere angled lines, her narrow pale lips, which are now saying some words that are not registered by his conscience, the sneering squint of brown eyes, it’s like all of it have just found their resolution and brightness. Or did the world around her lose its color? And even time flows slowly, syrup-like, while he’s watching as though through a magnifying glass a chink in the corner of her mouth, the angrily flaring wings of the imperfect nose, how her cheek turns pink from the cold…  


“Malfoy!”  


He flinches and instinctively takes a step back.  


“Are you listening to me at all?”  


“Actually, I’m not,” he admits honestly with a high-pitched laugh and shakes his head, chasing away the remnants of the delusion. “So, what’s about Snape?”  


“Why are you teaching him that crap? He blinded his classmate today! I had to take him to the nurse.”  


“Ah, that’s why you brought me here? So that I lift the spell?”  


She shakes her head. “Poppy did it. But how did it cross your mind to teach black magic to a first-year?! You’re a prefect!”  


Lucius laughs shortly. “That’s not black magic, where did you get that idea? It’s an ordinary hex, everybody at Slytherin knows it. He should know how to protect himself…”  


“ **You** should have protected him!” She glares violently. “Gwen told me everything. When Potter and Black started nagging him after the game, what did you do? You took points off them and continued your way! Were you hurrying to the party? And be damned the fact that they got even more angry with Snape! Why didn’t you walk him to the common room?”  


“What am I, his nanny?” Lucius suddenly bristles. “Why didn’t he go himself?”  


“Because he was dragged under a bleacher,” she screams in response. “Because he’s too proud to run away. And too self-confident. Because some idiot, who’s wearing a prefect’s badge due to a misapprehension of sorts, showed him how to get anyone he might have problems with crippled!”  


“Ok, stop,” the spite rushes back as quickly as it appeared, “I don’t get it, who are you worried about: Snape or those Gryffs?”  


“All of them,” she cuts him off. “How do you not see it, they’re **children**!”  


“Why, is your maternal instinct coming through? You should get married, Knightley, and have kids. Where does this ‘older sister’ complex come from?”  


She turns around to the lake, leaning her elbows on a stone window sill of an archway. Lucius wants to add something, but he finds out in terror that her shoulders are shaking. And he thinks belatedly that not only her parents, but perhaps a little brother too might have been in that lost life of hers…  


“Knightley!” He hesitantly comes closer and drags her by the sleeve of the robe, trying to turn her around to him, but she jerks annoyingly, freeing her hand. “What happened?”  


“It’s as if you colluded with them,” she answers, smearing the tears that appeared in her eyes, and Lucius realizes with relief that she’s not crying. She’s laughing. “Get married…,” she doubles over again, burying her forehead in the mossy stonework.  


Lucius, feeling like a complete idiot, stands by, waiting for this weird bout of laughter to end.  


“Right, Malfoy,” she starts in an intolerable commanding voice once she finally calms down, “next time think who and what you are teaching.”  


“Or what?” He asks challengingly, but more out of a contradiction feeling. He isn’t going to fiddle around with kiddos anyway.  


“Or I’ll show you a couple of ‘ordinary hexes,” Knightley answers him in tune. “For your vast collection.”  


And, having turned around so swiftly that the flaps of her robe fly up before his face and hit him with a bitter smell of herbs, she quickly goes towards the Hospital Wing.  


***  


No ventilation in the world, even the specially designed one, can handle the nasty stink of the Skele-Gro, so once the stage when the potion is super-sensitive to temperature changes at the lab is over, Jean flings the window open in relief. Now the cauldron requires only minimal attention, so the girl climbs onto the window sill, exposing her poor, watery from acrid fumes eyes to the fresh damp wind. “ _On the other hand, the stocks I prepared today will last us to Christmas at the very least,_ ” Jean thinks with satisfaction. She’s in a great mood. First of all, because she managed to deal with today’s duel at the field affair, not causing any discontent in Snape and James. And even Sirius, in the end, apologized for his rudeness. Of course, all three of them were very much impressed by the fact that she didn’t rat them out. Moreover, she even persuaded Poppy to not get the Headmaster or Heads of Houses informed about the incident.  


Snape, who have already bidden farewell to school in his mind, being sure that he will be expelled, was the most shocked. He absolutely honestly thought himself guilty, and it fills Jean’s heart with hope that maybe it’s not too late to change something for him. “ _Cause he’s just a kid. He’s unsociable and reserved, but he’s not evil. And while he has Lily, he's got a chance._ ”  


Jean can’t stop admiring their heart-melting friendship. Lily, unlike Snape, is quite popular at her House, but she never forgets her friend and stands up for him. Jean barely holds herself from smiling, watching the girl shaking her tiny, but firm, little fist in front of yet another bully’s nose and staring daggers with her impossibly green eyes. Although, perhaps, the thing that looks so cute to Jean, painfully bruises the boy’s pride. It’s bound to annoy when a girl rushes to your defense again and again. And if it's the girl you like who does it… No wonder he embraced Malfoy’s lessons with such enthusiasm: he desperately wants to protect himself **singlehandedly**.  


“ _Why couldn’t he show the kid something like Expelliarmus?_ ” Jean asks an invisible companion, as if she’s continuing that confused conversation at the gallery. But, to her surprise, she’s not feeling angry anymore. This last fight turned out to be too… friendly. She could have been berating Harry or Ron in the same way (which she actually did more than once!). And the peacock, in his turn, answered her as if she had a right to make any demands of him. “ _That’s because he had no idea that he’s facing a Mudblood,_ ” the jeering inner voice explains. “ _But why not have a friendly talk with a fellow Slytherin? Even after her indecent, expressly hostile behavior. You can’t hide a gentleman’s education…_ ” Jean snorts skeptically, but she has to agree that no tricks of hers have yet made Malfoy to show his real face. “ _Do you even know what his real face is? You forgave Snape so easily for what he will commit, but you can’t do the same to your classmates? You think they’re complete scums by default? But they’re also only kids now, just a little bit older than your beloved Professor…_ ”  


Jean covers her ears with her palms, as if this snide, painfully stinging words sound from somewhere separate. A vain attempt. “ _The difference is,_ ” she tries to win over the voice with its own weapon, the reasoning, “ _that, in the future, Snape won’t only have time to make his mistakes, but to also fix them. And comparing to, for example, Bellatrix, one could say that he never even did anything horrible…_ ” But this trick doesn’t work too. The voice doesn’t want to shut up. It continues to prove that Lestrange was simply mad, and, comparing to her, not only Snape, but the entire Voldemort’s inner circle too could be deemed as innocent victims of circumstances. That she, Jean, transformed into one of the real Slytherins with their famous double standards too quickly. That it’s highly illogical to judge people for the mistakes or even crimes that she herself will let them commit. “ _Because you will, Hermione Jean Granger. Have you forgotten that no matter who you are, or in which time you live, you still suck at breaking rules? So, who’s guilty in what will happen: pureblood **children** , who don’t know there is another way, or someone who is watching how they are turning into murderers and terrorists, falling under this monster’s power, and how their souls get destroyed? Someone so obedient and nice…_”  


The torture is ended by a mournful clank: a flask of strained glass that she flings under her feet in a frenzy is now rolling around the stone floor, unscathed. “ _It will drive me insane,_ “ she realizes with absolute clarity suddenly. “ _To know exactly who’s going to be the next in the list of the fallen for twenty-eight years. To talk to myself for twenty-eight years. To hate myself for not fighting for a single soul or a single life for twenty-eight years…_ ”  


Jean sighs brokenly, pushing with effort the air through her spasmed throat. When she promised herself to be strong, in her mind she likened the strength of the spirit with righteousness. Another beautiful theory crashed against the stark realities of life. She should have chosen only one thing.  



	19. Chapter 19

Watching absentmindedly how the snowflakes, whirling behind the Hospital Wing window, play, Jean is terribly regretting she refused Fabs’ invitation. Christmas with the Prewetts would definitely be fun, but… One can put their trust on sharpened face features, radically changed haircut and stature as much as one wants, but all of it definitely won’t deceive Molly with her special, motherly eyes. Which means that she should forget about any, even the most short-term, visits to the house where people from her future past might be staying. But something inside her chest aches both mournfully and sweetly (she can’t tell which way exactly) at the thought of spending the holiday feast, being surrounded by red-headed members of the Prewett-Weasley clan. Cause they’re all still alive now, young, full of boiling energy. And they’re so close, but it still feels like they’re living in a parallel world. The only option she has left is to carefully inquire Fabs about people she considered her family, masking her avid interest with polite curiosity.  


Besides, it’s not too bad at Hogwarts either. The main joy is that the Slytherins in their entirety left for holidays, and now it’s only Snape and Jean staying at the house. He, of course, isn’t the best companion one could wish to have for Christmas, but, at least, she is able to relax in his presence and calmly sit beside the fireplace in the common room with a book. He could also be sent with a note to Poppy or asked to bring some hot chocolate from the kitchen. The boy willingly grants her requests, but otherwise keeps distantly, and Jean tries with all her might not to pressure him with her care. She advances her aim in careful little steps, realizing she doesn’t have a right to misfire.  


Jean smiles sadly at her thoughts. When did she manage to turn into a perfect Slytherin? And is it really only possible for reckless Gryffindors to rush into friendship heads on, without having to adjust every step or plan any campaign of conquest? Sure, the houses don’t have anything to do with it. It’s just Snape, whatever age he’s in, isn’t the easiest object for friendly sentiments. Even now she still keeps calling him by his surname to herself, and every time a dark, ominous figure of the Potions Professor looms at the periphery of her mind. Everyone she doesn’t know well or has never met as adults – Sirius, James, Lily, Emmy – are perceived as kids instantly. But not Snape.  


Completely lacking children’s charm, he really looks exactly like an Augurey, as Gwen accurately pointed out when he was boasting his new wand to her. She even brought Scamander’s _Fantastic Beasts_ to the Great Hall and expressly read aloud that ‘an Augurey reminds of an underfed vulture. This skinny, eternally mourning bird is of greenish black color.’ Jean never heard such unanimous laughter at the Slytherin table. And Snape, naturally, was mortally offended. Gwen tried to apologize, she even tailed after him for some time and nagged that she’ll turn into his own private ghost to haunt him forever if he doesn’t forgive her right away, but she grew tired of it soon. It was absolutely impossible to prove oneself to be more stubborn than Snape, and Gwen, in spite of her giddiness, is a very practical girl.  


“Sulking again?” Poppy’s soft hand lays on her shoulder.  


“Not at all,” Jean shakes her head. “Just thinking.”  


“Where’s your protégé?”  


Jean’s patronizing attitude towards Snape is a long-known fact for her friends. Especially Poppy, to whom she regularly takes the injured in yet another fistfight Slytherin. Moreover, in at least half of the cases there was no need to drag him to the Hospital Wing, Jean is perfectly able to aid him right there, and the nurse knows that. But she readily plays along with her friend, insisting from time to time that the patient should stay the night ‘under surveillance’. Then Jean has an opportunity to engage him in a conversation, when she, as if by accident, drops by his ward. The hospital monotony and careful selection of the conversation subject do the rest. And then Jean follows the golden rule of Shahrazad, remembering about a potion, requiring some attendance, and running back to her lab right in the middle of the most interesting part. Sure, it is naïve to expect that Snape would act like a normal kid and beg for the rest of the story. But he isn’t completely indifferent too, it’s just that he shows his interest in a very Slytherin manner. Sometimes Jean realizes only by the end of the conversation that she was skillfully led to a topic dropped a couple of weeks ago. And, closing the door of the ward behind her, she victoriously smiles at Poppy’s questioning look.  


But, if you think about it, there’s not too many reasons for joy: Jean’s successes in reaching her goal are insignificant. Much to her greatest regret, it’s Malfoy who became Snape’s main hero. And he doesn’t just take it for granted, but imagines himself a great educator, willingly helping the boy with studying and, even more often, telling him something extra curriculum. At first, Jean even had a feeling that he’s doing it in her spite, intentionally taking her place. Then she thought that he’s mocking her when he asks for her advice on how best to explain a difficult topic to a first-year or where to find a book for independent study. But afterwards she has to admit that it’s thanks to Malfoy that Snape has finally started to accept her help and is more polite to Jean than to most other people, inch by inch putting away the quills he always has at the ready for too pestilent company. But it’s way too far to actual trust, not to mention affection. And, for that matter, does this gloomy, close-tongued boy, who goes even deeper into his shell because of constant sneers his classmates pour him over with, know how to trust and be affectionate to anyone?  


Even Lily’s presence, which always had a good effect on him, seems to lose its magic with every passing day. Snape is clearly annoyed with her attempts to drag him into common games. He wants Lily just for himself and gets terribly angry when she forces the company of her chirping girlfriends on him. She gets offended, and they are sulking at each other for weeks. Usually, during those periods, Snape looks particularly hard for fights with the inseparable Gryffindors which ends for him with evening conversations with Jean in the Hospital Wing. And in the morning flurried Lily comes running to his ward, they reconcile, and it all starts anew. With every new loop of this infinite spiral, Snape refines his famous sarcasm, now still looking more like a pathetic bravado, and James and Sirius perfect their charms and fistfights.  


Jean even started to wait eagerly for Snape to master some really effective spell so that at least once he could gain the upper hand in a confrontation with the Marauders. More so since soon the chances for it will turn even smaller, when the Gryffindors’ advantage in numbers will double up. By now Peter attached himself to a group of third-years as a sidekick fool, and Remus keeps aloof, not getting close with anyone at Hogwarts. Until recently.  


“Right where yours is, I suppose…”  


Poppy has her own favorite among first-years. Much more conformable and sociable, he, nevertheless, just like Snape isn’t rushing to trust and open up. He can relax from the need to always be on his guard only with those who know his secret. And it’s Poppy, who’s always by his side in difficult times, who became the closest person to him. No wonder that the nurse gave her heart to the one child that needs her more than anyone else at school. And she’s very happy that Remus finally has company.  


“Won’t they be late for dinner? Should we send Misie to look for them?”  


“Nah, they’re definitely playing chess at the Gryffindor common room,” Jean says. “Snape took away my chess set in the morning.”  


It all started with a chess set. It was a birthday gift from Fabs and Alice that they only handed to Jean in November, when they were let to go to Hogsmeade for the first time. Apparently, the local souvenir shop doesn’t offer great variety. Or maybe on the contrary, the gift has some implication, since the lock on the box is made in the shape of a big knight. Anyway, Jean never opened it until holidays. She didn’t have any time or a partner to play with, besides, she never was a fan of chess. Perhaps, there’s Ron's direct fault in it: he was so happy he excels nerdy Granger in an **intellectual** activity that he almost reduced her to tears a couple of times by mockingly commenting every wrong move she made for the entire Great Hall to hear. It was back in their second or third year, but she still remembers the hurt whenever she sees a chessboard. But when Slytherins left for home, and Jean set to invent the holiday entertainment program, the set was taken out. And history repeated itself. Ruthless Snape didn’t give her any mercy, and after four scorching parties in a row said that female brain is an oxymoron. Perhaps, he hoped that Jean won’t get it anyway, and he didn’t want to offend her at all. But she got it. And, inside, she was happy: she likes snide and smart-ass Snape much more than the pale shadow that doesn’t even look the other person in the eyes. And then she remembered that there’s at least one other great chess player at school. At all rates, he was the best player at 12 Grimmauld Place in summer 1995. “ _So, we’ll finally identify an absolute champion,_ ” Jean grins to herself, remembering the persistence with which Snape refused the party against Lupin back then.  


She doesn’t even have to plot anything this time. Coming at breakfast with the set under her arm one time was enough. Remus himself offered her to play. After having honestly warned him about the imperfection of her female brain, Jean agreed. Almost instantly curious Snape appeared behind her shoulder. He also started to hiss at her right away and was clutching his head so dramatically as if no less than the Slytherin dungeons themselves were at stake. And it suddenly became clear to her **what** is a key to an animate, real Snape. So clear as if someone actually put a shiny little key on her palm. Vehemence pulls him out of his depressed, almost haunted state. When the boy is properly challenged, he literally changes. He even starts to look differently: shoulders straighten, expressive dark eyes shine brightly, his whole stature breathes with **strength**. Having hurryingly explained to her pieces that their commander was changed, Jean slipped out of the table and stood at some distance, admiring two future enemies leaning above the board in concentration. They didn’t even notice she’s gone.  


Poppy puts high hopes on a suddenly appeared sympathy between the two most unsociable first-years. “They’re like two wolf cubs,” she says on one of these days, watching the boys kicking snowdrifts outside. Both were less than thrilled to be sent to have a breath of fresh air, but obediently hover around the yard, looking identically sullen and having hid their noses in their scarves. “It’s easier for them to understand each other.”  


Jean knows too well that Poppy’s predictions aren't meant to happen. And she even knows why. **Remus** is a wolf cub. He needs a pack. But Snape is a prophetic Augurey, ‘the eternally mourning bird’, a loner by nature.  


“Alright, tell Misie to call them to the Great Hall,” Jean turns away from the window. “I can’t imagine myself enjoying the spirit of Christmas without Snape…”  


***  


Her irony was absolutely groundless. The holiday feast passes truly merrily, and Snape doesn’t differ from Remus and two five-years from Ravenclaw even to her meticulous eye: he lights the candles with everyone else, sings carols, looks for coins in a plum pudding and generally acts like a normal eleven-year old kid. He even falls asleep at the table. Poppy nudges Jean’s elbow right in time, pointing at the dozing off boy, and she hastily bids goodbye to Dumbledore and everyone else and leads him to the dungeons. Passing the Entrance Hall, she glances at the watch and is horrified: it turns out they stayed up talking until two in the morning! McGonagall and Flitwick have sent their students to sleep long ago, and Slughorn was absent at dinner, celebrating Christmas at some party in London. It’s no surprise that the professors, being accustomed to treat Jean more like Poppy’s assistant than a student (and also being too carried away by tasting mulled wine) left her to her own discretion about when to come back to her House and when to make the first-year she took under her wing do so too. “ _Maybe they forgot that I’m not even a prefect?_ ” She asks herself yet again, nudging completely sleepy Snape along the corridor. “ _Thanks Merlin they didn’t offer me a drink…_ ”  


“ _Semper fidelis_!” She says the password and shivers: the common room opens, and a cold blast comes from there.  


It’s no surprise since, for almost a week now, both she and Snape only come here to stay the night. The elves, seeing that the house is empty, maintain the temperature sufficient for the walls to not get covered with frost, but no more than that. However, now a strong flame is roaring in the fireplace. And someone is sitting in a chair, pulled closer to it.  


Jean instantly puts the boy behind her back and points her wand out at the incomer. For some reason she feels more terrified now than she ever did. So much so that she can’t manage her voice right away, and when she finally speaks, it sounds hoarse. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”  


The dark figure moves, turning to them, and Jean warningly jerks her wand. “Keep off!”  


A cracked laughter, just as hoarse as her own voice, sounds from the chair. Having laughed off, the stranger puts a bottle he’s holding to his mouth, takes a sip and sets it back at his feet. And says nothing. It’s only now that Jean realizes she should light up the lamps, but before she casts the spell, Snape wiggles out of her grip and dashes to the fireplace.  


“Lucius!” He greets Malfoy happily.  


“Hello, little serpent!” He pulls off his hood and routinely tousles the boy’s hair, as if he was a puppy.  


Jean lowers her wand in relief.  


“Malfoy, what are you doing here?”  


“Kniiightley!” He laughs in the same weird way again. “How was dinner? Have you brought me some cake?”  


“What are you doing here?” She repeats, coming closer.  


He haves another pull at the bottle, and, judging by the smell, there’s something much stronger than butterbeer in it.  


“I’m celebrating. Can’t you see?”  


“You should go to sleep,” Jean says to Snape, nudging him towards the bedrooms.  


“Goodnight,” he answers obediently, sounding a little surprised, and leaves.  


It’s easy to understand his surprise: ‘the Slytherin prince’ never was in such state since the beginning of the year. Or, perhaps, as Jean suspects, never was in such state at all.  


“Shouldn’t you be celebrating at home?”  


"Hooome…” He drawls incomprehensibly. “I have… already… finished celebrating at home…”  


He leans back in his chair, cradling his left arm, and closes his eyes wearily. Jean is petrified in front of him, astounded by a sudden guess. “ _Did he really… already… already today?!_ ”  


“Well, what are you looking at?” Malfoy asks in annoyance without opening his eyes. “Tell me something about me setting a bad example for the younger generation. About violating school rules… What other topics are your favorite?”  


“You should go to sleep too, Malfoy,” Jean mutters through her clenched teeth in disgust and turns around to go to her room, when he suddenly grabs her by the robes and sharply pulls her to himself. Not being able to keep her balance, she falls on top of him. “Are you mad? Let me go!!!”  


She props at his chest with her free arm, trying to move away and get up from the chair. He grabs her by the neck, leaning her head to himself, and she feels his hot breath, smelling of firewhisky and pain-killing potion, on her cheek. A wave of disgust spreads over Jean, and the moment his harsh, angry lips touch her skin, she sinks her nails into his left forearm. Malfoy howls and shoves her away with such strength that she almost falls into the fireplace. The next second her wand is already pointing at him.  


“Don’t you dare,” she hisses, barely controlling a savage fury overwhelming her and pounding with a frantic pulse in her temples. “Don’t you dare to ever touch me again…”  


“Or what?” He takes the bottle, overthrown during their fight, and takes another sip out of it. “You’re broke and an absolutely **unwanted** nerd. You should be fluttered by the perst… persc… perspective to help me unwind... Blow me, perhaps. Besides, it’s Christmas tonight. Why are you so sour, Knightley?”  


“I’m gonna blow you to pieces now, peacock,” Jean promises him darkly. “On the occasion of Christmas.”  


“Rude,” Malfoy snorts, settling comfortable in his chair. “Do you want me to teach you some manners?”  


“I’ve warned you, Malfoy. Don’t **ever** come near me again. I hate you.”  


Spitting out this last short sentence, she disappears into the darkness of the corridor. Lucius presses his unbearably burning arm to his chest and starts to swing back and forth again, trying to soothe the stinging sensation. No potion, spell or alcohol could save him from it. But these dull movements help him go into some sort of trance, when his conscience kind of separates from his twisting in pain body. So, he sits like that until the dawn, not noticing angry tears streaming down his face.  



	20. Chapter 20

Jean was seeing nightmares all night. The Durmstrang’s dungeons again, some misty trails in the mountains, grey fences along a sleepy street of a small town, a constant hunt where she can’t understand whether she’s the hunter or the hunted, but this movement, when you can’t go left or right, only forwards, is scarier than any torture and is even more terrifying than her friends’ deaths which she also sees in her dreams quite often. Today’s dream leaves an after-taste of hopelessness. And she knows why. The thing she was waiting in dread has begun.  


Right when she just started to believe that not everything is lost yet. Right when she persuaded herself that it would be wrong to forgive Snape and blame Malfoy for the very same **future** mistake. And while both have the option of a right choice, they deserve an unprejudiced treatment. Just like Bellatrix, Macnair and Goyle do… But Jean’s generosity doesn’t go this far. For some reason it’s easier to give Malfoy a chance, than to do it to all other Slytherins. Maybe it’s because that he’s the only one Snape is reaching out to, the only one whose authority is really important for the boy. Or maybe because Malfoy didn’t become a murderer in the end. Jean unwillingly constantly remembers a couple of meetings with him back then, in her past: the fight with Arthur Weasley in the bookstore and Tom Riddle’s diary, foisted to Ginny; the Quidditch World Cup, when he marched past them, looking so proud, arm in arm with impeccable Narcissa, and pouring her, Harry and Ron with a wave of almost palpable disdain; the battle at the Ministry, where the Dumbledore’s Army was more threatened by ominous artefacts of the Department of Mysteries than spells of Voldemort’s hapless minions; the ‘visit’ to Malfoy Manor, where he was looking worn out, sick and kind of intimidated… No, but Bellatrix, Dolohov, Carrows, these people project cannibal ferocity, they really did **devour death**. But not Malfoy. And yet it’s him who is the first to accept the Mark.  


And although it’s only a beginning, Jean has a feeling that she has **already** suffered an overwhelming defeat. Having parted ways with Malfoy in the common room, she sleeplessly rolls over in bed, trying to persuade herself that she can’t give up, that she still might fight for Snape… But deep inside she already knows everything’s pointless. It was extremely arrogant to think that the future depends solely on her decision whether to break or not break rules.  


Thanks Merlin too, since that decision was too impulsive. Back then, in October, giving way to the feeling of guilt, she was seriously planning to counter Voldemort’s enlistment of Hogwarts students, ignoring, as if on purpose, the fact that the exact same events she wants to change still led to victory, even though they did so through the series of losses and mistakes. Who knows how it all would end, if she managed to save Snape from accepting the Mark? Or what would happen to the magical world, if Voldemort didn’t disappear after attacking the house in the Godrick’s Hollow? No, the rules she was almost ready to break aren’t just **rules**. They have nothing in common with breaking the curfew or stealing ingredients from the Potions Professor’s private supplies. And even Sirius’ break-out right under Fudge’s nose seems an innocent prank comparing to what she has in mind. It’s like she’s holding in her hands dozens of living, pulsating threads, each of them being someone’s fate. And she’s preparing to intertwine them at her own wish, not having any idea what the pattern will be, and which threads will snap a that.  


No, it all should happen as it was meant to be. And she hates Malfoy even more for this sudden afterlight, for reminding her what the actual intention of the destiny is. The very same destiny she almost risked to challenge. She hates him for, being an idiot that he is, becoming trapped in it and not even understanding yet that, having made this mistake, he crossed everything good that might have happened in his life. She hates that he doomed himself, a child of fortune, for years of serving the tyrant, for a soggy ward in Azkaban, for the eternal guilt towards the entire magical Britain, for the loss of family money, for his name getting besmeared, for the disgrace… For the fact that he’ll drag off with himself other Slytherins, his friends, his own family… For those grey fences she sees with her mind’s eye even after she woke up, for ruining Christmas by dragging himself to the castle for some reason, even though there’s still an entire week of holidays left. She hates him for the fact that she is now sitting in her bedroom and thinking about how much she hates him, instead of going to the Hospital Wing and exchanging gifts with Poppy.  


And for the fact that when she finally has the heart to go out to the Slytherin common room, it’s already empty.  


***  


Lucius is sitting on an edge of the pool with carps in the Malfoy Manor’s conservatory and thoughtlessly watches bug-eyed Cicero slowly glide his fins in the cloudish water. Cicero is a local old-timer: he was let into the pool when Lucius was six, and his mother was still alive. She loved the conservatory very much and didn’t trust the house-elves with its tendance, so little Lucius spent a lot of time here with her. And it was his idea to get fish for the conservatory.  


Lucius even vaguely remembers the scandal that occurred when he solemnly announced that he names the carp Cicero and appoints him his familiar. It was his father who threw a fit. His mother was simply laughing about the name choice for the fish, but his father got seriously mad. Abraxas Malfoy, with the **special** voice he always uses to emphasize how disappointed he is, was rebuking his wife that his only heir is lacking suitable education so much that he doesn’t even realize what establishment of a magical link to a non-magical animal could do to him. Then he hunkered down in front of his son and broke forth into lengthy, detailed explanations, from which little Lucius only made out one thing: you can only give something away, if you’re counting to get something in return. The owner of a familiar is sharing a piece of his magic with it, and the magical animal, in its turn, fuels its owner with energy throughout its whole life. But there couldn’t be any support from a brainless fish. When he finally finished his lecture and asked about conclusions Lucius made for himself, the boy answered that, perhaps, the most valuable familiars should be made out of wizards. And his father smiled with satisfaction and tousled his hair affectionately.  


Lucius often remembers that conversation when he meets someone new. He’s shaking an offered hand, looks the person in their eyes and thinks, “ _I wonder how good of a familiar could you be. What could you give me?_ ” He carefully sifts out his entourage to select the best. And he only gifts the best with his friendship. Because you can’t fritter away your time, efforts and energy on brainless fish. Lucius was growing, studying at school, travelling around Europe with his father, building his plans for the future, while Cicero was sleepily rippling in the stone pool in the middle of the conservatory, deserted after his mother’s death. Meaning that the conservatory, of course, isn’t left completely unattended, but the house-elves do not put their hearts into it, like late Mrs. Malfoy did. That is why, perhaps, this place, that seemed to be a small fairytale land full of wonders and secrets, now reminds him of an empty, echoing vault. And it excellently fits his current mood. It’s partly for that reason that he rushed to take cover here just when he reached the Malfoy Manor instead of reporting his arrival to his father. The second and the main reason is that Abraxas Malfoy never comes to the conservatory, which means that he could wait here for the firewhisky he drank this night to weather away from his body, as well as finding enough courage in himself to face his father after what he’s done.  


At the memory of the ‘Christmas party’ at Lestranges’ estate Lucius’ guts are twisted into a tight knot again, and the nausea washes over him. Bella, though, despite the horrendous pain that didn’t subside even in a couple hours after the ritual, was clearly happy and proud to tie herself to her idol with a magical contract. But Lucius suddenly realized that he is now no more than a familiar: valuable, yes, maybe even a unique **specimen** , carefully selected out of hundreds of candidates. But this realization doesn’t flutter anymore. The trap has slammed shut. The Lord got what he wanted, and Lucius lost his freedom without getting anything in return, except for the **right to serve his master**. And if the older Malfoy somehow learns that his heir willingly turned himself into some sort of… a house-elf… No, surely, it doesn’t look like slavery. The ritual didn’t deprive him of free will. It only bound Lucius to the powerful wizard, whom he himself admired not that long ago and dreamed of being useful, for eternity. It’s that he had no idea how exactly this dream will be turned real.  


But when came the realization, combined with unbearable pain, that he took a **serious** oath, that it’s not a joke, it’s not playing knights, Lucius most of all wanted all of them to forget about him: excited and happy Bella with her eyes shining frantically, Rabastan, sympathetically offering him a drink “to soothe the stinging pain”, Nott and Crabbe, who also went through initiation earlier and were now trying to act as long-time members of the club… and the Lord himself, as courteous as before, radiating a special **fatherly** imperiousness of an overlord… They all made him want to run for dear life. So, Lucius ran away. Having whispered in Bella’s ear that he promised to be present at the holiday feast at home, he hurriedly left the assemblage, without even saying goodbye to the Lord.  


He leaped out of the estate’s gate, somewhere in suburbs of Manchester, and was instantly surrounded by silence and frosty freshness of a magical Christmas night. It was like this nightmare didn’t just happen to him: a round of strangers, his friends, who slipped masks on themselves for some reason, the cacophony in his ears, the sickening mix of alcohol and some potion Rodolphus poured into him, the monstrous pain and the abomination, as if some creature with sharp poisonous mandible took up under his skin and is swarming there, sinking deeper into his naked flesh… One thought about it made the pain sweep over him again, so that his vision darkened. Lucius clumsily waved his hand, and his wand slipped out of his languid, freezing fingers. The same moment the dark purple side of the Knight Bus appeared in front of him with a horrific skirr. Before that Lucius only heard about the mythical bus, and sometimes he even doubted the thing actually exists.  


“What you looking at, boy?” A wizard, wearing long mustaches and a uniform, called out to him darkly. “Where do you have to so urgently go at Christmas Eve?”  


Lucius, as usual, had a portkey on him that would instantly take him to the Malfoy Manor. But it wouldn’t be smart to show up in front of his father like this. Submitting to a sudden impulse, he stepped on the Knight Bus’ footboard and asked to take him to Hogwarts. It suddenly seemed to him that if he finds himself at school now, it will all fix by itself. It’s even funny how much he believed in that…  


But then his poor arm was unbearably shaken during the ride, so he was ready to scream at the top of his voice while getting out of the bus. Then there was an endless journey to the school’s gate down a narrow ice-covered path, when it seemed that the castle isn’t coming any closer, but just looms in front of him like a tantalizing mirage. Having finally reached the school Lucius didn’t risk poking his nose to the Great Hall, from which the voices could still be heard: apparently, the celebration was at its height. He slowly went, shaking with tiredness, to the dungeons, where it turned out to be almost colder than outside. And that’s where his prefect’s powers came at hand: after having made the elves to light the fireplace in the common room, Lucius checked over one of the five-years’ bedrooms and quickly found what he was looking for: a half full bottle of firewhisky, ‘safely’ hidden under a bed. A phial of a pain-killing potion was discovered in his own stores.  


He absolutely doesn’t want to remember the rest. Lucius shakes his head in annoyance and lowers his hand into the pool, touching Cicero’s scored back with his fingertips. He should have come here straight away. It’d be much better than sneaking into Hogwarts like a thief and running away from it the same way as soon as the day broke. And it’d be better than to be slipping again on the path to Hogsmeade, clutching with solid frozen fingers the portkey in his robes’ pocket and clenching his teeth in pain and spite, while her disdainful “I hate you” was playing in his head over and over again. He winces, remembering how her pale lips curved in a grimace he hasn’t seen for a long time now. If he wasn’t in such a state, if only he met someone else in the dungeons… “ _Why, why did it have to be Knightley?!_ ”  


Lucius harshly leaps to his feet, but instantly sits back, wrapping himself tighter into the robes. Maybe he should have stayed and explained everything… But now he can’t explain **everything** even to himself. For example, why he thought that he’ll find help at Hogwarts, and why he didn’t ask anyone for it. Or why he attacked Knightley after **months** spent to earn her trust. Surely, you can’t say he was very successful in that. He wasn’t, trust was still out of the question, but, at least, she stopped bristling in his presence and could even keep an ordinary conversation about nothing in particular. She even participated with great enthusiasm in talks about her precious first-years, Severus especially. Lucius was simply lucky that the only person at Slytherin she actually cares about got so attached to him. Because he actually was the key to that Jean Knightley who can smile and answers when she’s called by her name. Although he only performed this experiment once, and he still finds it funny, when he remembers how carefully he was picking out the moment, and how slow the seconds were passing, while he was waiting, heart-in-mouth, for her annoyed, “What do you want, Malfoy?” But, at least, she answered, even if she eyed him in surprise. The euphoria, sweeping over Lucius that day, now seems funny as well.  


It looks like he got too carried away with the difficult task of conquering Knightley, having completely forgotten the reason he wanted to befriend her in the first place. Does it make any sense to accomplish his plan now? No, he doesn’t want this shit to bite into her arm! He made enough sacrifices to the Lord, and he isn’t going to give him anything else. At least, not Macnair and not Knightley. They both are too **free** to bear someone’s marking. He grins bitterly. It’s as if he himself deserved **this**. Could he really imagine…  


A house-elf appears in front of him, ripping open the air with a whooshing sound. Obsequiously popping his eyes out and laying back his ears just in case, he announces that “Mr. Malfoy awaits young master in the burgundy study”, and disappears right away, without giving Lucius an opportunity to object. “ _Filthy skank,_ ” he thinks, getting up with a sigh. Of course, it was stupid to actually hope that he could shelter here until the end of the holidays. The talk with his father is inevitable and bodes no good.  


“See you, Cicero,” Lucius turns around and waves at the carp, who swings his tail in response. “Wish me luck!”  



End file.
